


and the wolf ate little red riding hood up

by dharma22



Series: Faeneth Lavellan Canon [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Dialogue Heavy, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Heavy Angst, M/M, Shameless Smut, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Violence, kinda slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2020-11-28 00:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 112,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dharma22/pseuds/dharma22
Summary: Faen Lavellan is a hard girl. She's lived her life as an outcast among her people and the humans. She came into her magic early but was never allowed to let it flourish for fear of being abandoned by the clan. After all, no such kindness as keeping a mage is extended to an outsider of the clan. So she's hid it her entire life. Her Keeper trained her in the way of the blade and she was sent out into the human cities to spy on them.Her mission was to spy on the Conclave, not be the sole survivor of a blast that killed hundreds and act as the savior of the world. She finds herself thrown into the world of people who hate her kind. An elf among humans? More difficult than one could ever imagine. Not only must she contend with being a elf but an elf with suppressed magical abilities that are just aching to let loose. With the help of a mysterious apostate who wanders the Fade, she learns to keep her magic in check and finds herself falling for him in the process.





	1. The Herald of Andraste

**Author's Note:**

> This is, hopefully, the beginning of a long, complicated endeavor. I hope to write a multi-chapter fic with multiple relationships and tie-ins from previous games. It won't be a short or easy process so please do bare with me. If you enjoy, please comment to give me encouragement. It would be greatly appreciated!

A’len’s braids were always messy. Her gnarled, knotted fingers lacked their once refined dexterity. She had never been proficient in the plaits she wove, but over the years, Faen noticed a steady decline in the tightness or composure of the braids. When A’len would finish, her fingers working slowly to bind her work, Faen always looked worse for wear. She was a ragged child — pale as a halla’s hide and ghoulishly gaunt, her eyes too large in proportion to the rest of her features. The braids merely acted as a weak complement. 

A’len never pulled the braids tight enough, which allowed for sizeable gaps to form on the loops. She never corrected her mistakes, no matter how frustrated she grew with them. A hair out of place was to be left out of place. The old woman left her braids as they were and as such, left them a total mess. In the beginning, Faen condemned the old woman for her lack of care, believing her braids were an attempt to sabotage her chances at making friends. But now, possessing wisdom and experience she had not had as a small child, Faen could not fault the old woman for trying. It had been years since A’len’s eyes were capable of seeing much more than the faintest of shapes and concentrated shadows. Faen wondered if the woman had ever enjoyed the gift of sight.

The old woman need not her eyes to braid, for she navigated the task on  _ feel  _ and muscle memory. From delicate whispers amongst the clan, Faen had gathered that A’len had had a daughter at one point. One she never spoke of. 

Every morning, without fail, A’len insisted Faen sit between her legs and fill their morning with the painful, frustrating task of taming Faen’s unruly dark hair.

One would expect that little Faen abhorred mornings because of it, but she truly did not mind. A’len was mostly harmless and meant well. The other girls in the camp had their mothers braid their hair as well. A’len was simply affording the child a sliver of normalcy in a life that was near void of it. Besides Keeper Deshanna, A’len was the only one who had ever made her feel at home in the clan. While it was quite the stretch to say that the clan hated Faen, they certainly did not approve of her. They were pleasant enough, but from a young age, Faen could feel their contempt for her. She would forever remain an outsider amongst Clan Lavellan. 

To anyone on the outside, A’len’s attempts to care for their girl were feeble and misguided. For a time, Faen herself questioned why the old woman took her in. Was she to be a replacement for someone lost? Was she to be a slave to this woman’s will? But the older she grew, the less use she had for such thoughts. She wasn’t picky and had little care for A’len’s true motivations. 

Ever since she could first remember, A’len had been old and cantankerous. Her patience was short, her quips even shorter, and she placed a great deal of weight on Faen’s thin shoulders. In some ways, Faen was more authoritative and responsible than the woman who was supposed to her caretaker. When A’len was unable, most times rendered useless due to the aches of age, Faen would cook their meals, conduct their trading, repair their clothes, attend to their duties to the clan. She never complained. Why, she often wondered. Because A’len provided just enough comfort to Faen and for that, the woman was tolerable. A’len was  _ someone  _ to her. If the price to pay for such a treasure was messy hair and a few burns from stirring the pot, Faen would gladly pay it.

“You should cut your hair,  _ da’len.”  _

Faen remained silent, her focus on the fingers splayed out on her thigh. A’len had something to say about everything.  _ That  _ she could not tolerate. Almost as much as the old woman couldn’t tolerate silence.

“I said-”

“It’s not that long,” Faen replied. She fought back the urge to reach behind her and feel for the end of the braid, hoping to test A’len’s belief that her hair was too long. But she knew the outcome. Her hand would be viciously slapped away, A’len left to scold her for interrupting her work. That was another thing the woman hated — being interrupted in the midst of her work. 

Behind her, the old woman scoffed. “It’s long enough.” she said.

Faen conceded. There was little use in arguing with a woman as old as sin and as stubborn as a mountain. “I should cut it then?” she asked.

A’len was quiet as she finished her work. Faen could feel her struggling with the final tie.

“Let me.” she said. Surprisingly, the old woman past the braid over her shoulder without resistance. Usually, A’len wasn’t too keen on being offered help. She was odd in that while she cursed any offer of help, she often expected it. 

Faen took the braid, reworked the end, and tied it off. A quick inspection of its length revealed the extent of its horror. She sighed.

“Cut it and I don’t have to fix it.” A’len said.

For once, Faen considered her words. Usually, A’len’s words could be easily brushed off, for they rarely amounted to anything of value anymore. A’len had always been fairly silent but in this final stage of her life, she was prone to mindless ranting. The woman had an opinion on everything. Granting those opinions the space to grow and fester was unwise. It had taken Faen years to learn that lesson. She now considered herself to be the foremost expert in the art of ignoring her.

_ Would save myself the trouble…  _ A sly smile graced her berry stained lips.

Perhaps she would. As much as she enjoyed the feel of A’len’s fingers through her hair, she could not lie and say her chronic pulling and jumbled mess of a product was not one she loved. There was a time before she herself knew how to properly weave the hair into a satisfactory plait when the children in the clan would tease her endlessly for her hair. They would slip their small, dirty fingers through the loose loops and tug until they undid A’len’s work. 

Faen would let it happen, preferring to watch how pleased they grew with themselves with those sharp eyes of hers. Then her gaze would flick over to Keeper Deshanna, her eyes filled with sorrow and guilt. The Keeper would beckon for her to come sit in her lap and dedicate the following hour to reworking A’len’s handywork.

Keeper Deshanna lacked the touch she was accustomed to. Her fingers were far too gentle, far too uncertain for her liking. 

“May I go?” Faen asked, still contemplating A’len’s words.

Where the woman was once so eager to be done with her, she was now silent. In fact, everything was. Outside, there was no incessant pound of the smith’s hammer upon his anvil, no faint chatter of people, no sweet songs of birds. Nothing.

Confused, Faen made to stand up, hoping to come to a conclusion on where all the world went, but before she could reach her full height, a hand wove itself into her braid and yanked her head back with all its strength. She fell back hard against A’len’s chair, crying out as a hot spike of pain blossomed at the base of her skull.

“A’len?” she cried.

Realization hit her.

She was no longer a child. A’len had been dead for some time. 

A deep, unsettling panic set in. She began to struggle futilely against whomever it was who had a hold on her. She thrashed wildly, causing her assailant to tug harder on the braid. So hard she felt as if her scalp were being ripped from her skull.

“Wha-”

“He knows.”

Faen looked up. 

Those thin lips were A’len’s, Those sunken cheeks were hers too. But those eyes, cloudy but full of a knowing Faen couldn’t dream of comprehending, were  _ not  _ hers. They were empty. Disconnected from body and soul. Literally. Right as a new wave of horror washed over her, those eyes rolled lazily from their sockets, dropped to the floor. 

Faen screamed, her cheeks damp from tears she did realize she had shed. 

“He knows where you are,  _ da’len.”  _ This thing spoke with A’len’s voice.

Faen was too terrified to dwell on her confusion. Whomever  _ he  _ was was of little importance in this moment. All she wanted was to get away, be free of this nightmare and safe. Answers to her questions could wait.

“He sees you.”

Just then, a sharp pain burst forth from her hand, the pain radiating up her arm to leech into her shoulder and beyond. 

She screamed again. Before her very eyes, a gash split open the skin of her palm, revealing beneath it a collection of eyes peering back at her. There was no blood — the border of the gash had been cauterized as if burned. The smell of singed flesh choked her. 

Faen wanted to vomit. She could  _ feel  _ the movement of the eyes beneath her skin, could see their pupils dilate with such clarity that she questioned her sanity. 

“What is this?” she cried, trying her hardest to shake the eyes from her palm. Her efforts were ineffective. The eyes remained. Even when she squeezed her eyes shut, she could see them looking at her. Looking up at her, not with malice, but with...nothing. They were empty, just like A’len’s. Dead.

“They all see you now.”

___

Faen awoke with a violent start, her eyes darting wildly around the room in search of the husk of A’len. She found nothing. Instead, she was greeted by surroundings she did not recognize and the hum of great power against her damp skin. Her own magic, though heavily suppressed and glaringly malnourished, gave a pulsating response. Energy flowed through her being, manifesting in the slightest burst of energy from her fingertips. She clenched her first tightly and with a show of incredible will, forced the magic back down into the deepest depths.

She knew she ought to panic, such was the rational instinct, but she was calm. Eerily so. Despite the uncomfortable thrum of magic, she felt safe here. Like she could unfurl and not fear being attacked. 

But she did not like not having a full grasp on the situation. Where was she? Who had placed her here? What had happened?

She rolled over, her bare feet coming to rest firmly on the cold stone ground. The chill of the stone grounded her to a point where she became aware of the throbbing in her head. She sighed, her elbows coming to rest upon her knees and her head falling into her hands. The weight of it felt immense. Thankfully, the throbbing was not so intense as to be debilitating. It was no more than a minor annoyance. 

Faen took this time to contemplate the dream. A’len had been dead for two years and she never once haunted her dreams. Faen was no longer a child. The subject matter of the dream, like everything else in the world, was puzzling. But dreams were dreams. Often she’d be frequented by nonsensical dreams, their beginning innocent and cheery, only to be perverted into horrifying nightmares she’d wake and see for hours. A’len told her to pay them no mind.  _ To dwell on dreams is to become lost in them and those that are lost in the dream rarely return,  _ she’d said.

Faen struggled to abide by her wisdom. The dreams were too jarring, too real, and too reflective of events to come to simply ignore them. She pressed the heel of her hands to her eyes, hoping the pressure would eradicate the remnants of the dream. 

But she remembered. Remembered how she came to be here, remembered the events that transpired before she fell into darkness. The mark tingled faintly.

She pulled back her left hand and examined it. A red puckered gash ran across her palm, mimicking a fresh scar. But it wasn’t a scar — the mark was very much alive and active. She was aware of the tingling emanating from it, aware of the power it held. The mark was small, yet possessed the key to saving the world…

Just then, the door to the room swung open, a lanky she-elf carrying a small crate entering. It seemed she was not yet aware of the Faen’s presence. When she did notice, the elf let out a shriek and dropped the crate. The vials inside shattered as soon as they hit the floor.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” the elf exclaimed.

Faen’s brow furrowed, her hand reaching out in a gesture meant to ease her. But the gesture had the opposite effect, for the elf retreated slightly. “No, it’s alright. I should be getting up anyways.” she said, slowly coming to her feet. She had to brace herself on the bed for a moment before she could fully stand on her own.

The elf fell to her knees, her forehead touching the ground. Faen could see her tremble. “I beg your forgiveness,” the elf said, voice picking up the tremble of her body, “and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.”

The woman’s actions frightened her more than anything she’d experienced. Moments spent tucked behind barrels, hiding from the humans with every intention of carving her up, nights spent in complete darkness and alone in the wilderness paled in comparison to the fear this woman operated with in their interaction. 

Faen moved to her side, her arms coming to rest awkwardly around the woman. At the first press of her arms, the woman whimpered and Faen retreated. She hadn’t the faintest idea what to do to ease this woman. “Please…” Faen said, her voice small, “I am not to be feared.”

This seemed to calm the woman a bit. Enough to the point she no longer trembled. 

“You are back in Haven, my lady. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.” the elf said.

The mark sparked uncomfortably at the mention of it. Faen frowned. 

“It’s all anyone’s talked about for the last three days.” the elf continued.

_ Three days?  _ The passage of time was unexpected but not surprising. She felt incredibly sluggish and her body ached from lack of movement. But besides the physical effects of her slumber, she was also concerned with what all transpired over the course of three days. Three days and she went from the most hated living being in all of Thedas to the most respected.

“So, they’re pleased?” Faen asked.

The elf nodded and backed up. “The Breach remains in the sky but does not grow. I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve wakened. She said ‘at once.’” the woman informed her.

“Where is she?” Faen asked.

The elf slowly moved towards the door. “In the Chantry, with the others. At once!” 

She dashed for the door, opening it with swiftness and slamming it shut behind her.

Faen sighed. If this is how everyone would treat her, with terrified reverence, she would leave, no matter that state of the sky. But she could not dwell on that, for Cassandra was waiting for her.

She rummaged around in the dresser by the window, searching for more suitable clothing than the rags she wore now. She came across something resembling armor, the leggings sturdy and the coat one of leather. Faen dressed slowly, her body taking time to adjust to being used again. Remnants of her slumber lingered on in the aches in her joints. 

When she finished, she stood before the door, her thoughts a jumble. A steadying breath did little to disperse the madness. And so she exited.

The sight she was greeted with was most unexpected. Outside her hut were rows of men and women, some in leather armor, others in plain dress, all with their fists secured over their hearts. She recognized this as a gesture of respect. It stalled her. She ogled at them all, her mouth agape. When she finally moved, her feet more informed of where she was going than her head, she began to hear the whispers.

They called her the Herald of Andraste. They believed she was sent by the Maker. Every new prospect, every new title made her cringe. She hated their titles for her — none were true. The fact of the matter was simple: she was simply a product of disastrous timing. She wanted to scream in their faces that Andraste and the Maker had long since abandoned the elves and that they would never thrust one into such a position. 

Her pace was brisk as she walked through them, the crunch of the snow beneath her boots keeping her grounded enough to finish the walk. The crowds extended all the way up to the Chantry, people of all sorts coming to bask in the glory of the Herald of Andraste. It took all her strength not to collapse under the weight of their cries and pleading looks. 

In truth, she was not used to being so visible. Her work often consumed her in shadows, her work being undetectable. To be so exposed and give credit for something...she felt sick. She wanted desperately to crawl into a corner and  _ breathe  _ without witness to the rise and fall of her chest.

Finally, she arrived at the doors of the Chantry, her arms pushing past them with ease and closing them with much less easiness. Their weight seemed to double in her palms as she tried to close them. She felt as if she were attempting to move a mountain. Tears formed in her eyes with the effort. Finally, the doors slammed shut. The sound was beautiful. Faen practically collapsed against the door, her legs going weak and her chest heaving heavily. 

“Herald?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, a few tears spilling over with the effort. Faen took a deep, stabilizing breath. “I have a name,” she said.

“I-I am sorry, I did not mean to off-”

“It’s Faen. Faen Lavellan, lest you forget.”

The speaker cleared their throat. Faen had her suspicions as to who it was. That accent was quite unique. She gathered herself up and turned to Cassandra, her face red with embarrassment. 

“Yes…” Cassandra said. She cleared her throat again. “Are you alright?”

“I am fine, yes.” Faen said. She would be, in time.

Cassandra approved. “Good. We’ve repurposed the Revered Mother’s quarters and have gathered there. Leliana and I need to speak with you.” she said.

Faen followed Cassandra through the small, quaint Chantry. How it could service an entire village was beyond her. But they pushed through the cramped space and eventually stood before the door to the Revered Mother’s quarters. Cassandra stopped her from entering.

“Prepare yourself,” she said, her voice low.

Faen’s brows furrowed but before she could speak, the door had been thrown open and she was forced in. 

“Chain her! I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial.” 

Ah, Chancellor Roderick. She should’ve known he wouldn’t have buggered off, not with all the chaos. And of course he still suspected her. 

“Disregard that,” Cassandra said. She turned to the two templars guarding the door and commanded them to leave.

Roderick scowled. “You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.” he spat. 

Cassandra’s features hardened. Faen’s eyes were drawn to the shadow over the table — Sister Nightingale stood hunched over a pile of documents. The smile she offered was small but kind. 

“You forget so easily, Chancellor, that the breach still poses a threat. I will not ignore it.” Cassandra said.

“You think me a suspect?” Faen asked, directing her question towards the Chancellor, “After what I did?”

The Chancellor scoffed. “I can conjure up a great many things you can do to dissuade us from suspecting you. But I will not fall victim to such foolishness. You are our  _ foremost  _ suspect.” he said.

“No, she is not.” Cassandra firmly stated.

“I agree. But  _ someone  _ was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone most Holy did not expect.” Leliana added, “Perhaps they died with the others — perhaps they have allies that yet live.”

Her last statement was undoubtedly pointed at the Chancellor, that much Faen could pick up on. Chancellor Roderick balked at the suggestion.

“ _ I  _ am I suspect?” he said with disbelief.

Leliana stood her ground. “ _ You.  _ And many others.”

“But  _ not  _ the prisoner? A Dalish elf with an axe to grind?” Roderick said.

Faen felt an uncharacteristic burst of anger surge through her. She was quite used to her heritage and race being slung around as weak insults. But never was it used to implicate her in an act of mass murder and terrorism. “How dare you bring my race into this. Spit that from your mouth, Chancellor.” Faen said, voice dripping with venom.

The Chancellor sneered at her. “I will not. It is no secret that the Dalish harbor no love for the Chantry, let alone the Divine. Your people have been itching for such an act for centuries. A greater time to sow chaos could not be handed to you.” he said.

At her sides, she began to slowly crack her knuckles — something A’len had taught her to reign in her rage when the other children’s teasing became too much. She said nothing. Men like the Chancellor would always cling to their beliefs and refuse to be swayed by reason.

“Your comments are far out of line, Chancellor.” Leliana said. Faen was thankful for her intrusion.

“Besides, I was there at the temple. I heard the voices. The Divine called out for her.” Cassandra said. Faen was also thankful for that. 

“So her survival, that  _ thing  _ on her hand — all coincidence?” Roderick pressed. 

“Providence. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour!” Cassandra insisted.

That Faen was decidedly less thankful for. She contemplated the situation: Cassandra believed her innocent but only because she mistakenly thought the Maker had sent her as some sort of guide and solution to their very large, very dangerous problem. Was it worth being relieved if her innocence was chalked up to a god she didn’t believe in? She massaged her temples to alleviate the mounting headache.

“The Maker has a cruel sense of humor, sending an elf to do his bidding.” Faen mumbled.

Cassandra frowned and the Chancellor agreed. 

“That he does,” the Chancellor spat.

“No matter what you are, what you believe,  _ you  _ are exactly what we needed when we needed it.” Cassandra says. There’s a faint tinge to her voice, one that Faen has difficulty placing. It was almost as if Cassandra were not only trying to convince Faen of divine intervention but herself. Despite her discomfort and hatred for the association with the Maker, Faen felt a slight pang of guilt and sorrow for the Seeker.

She took a step back from the situation, metaphorically speaking, and considered everything that had happened. The humans and those few elves and dwarves who believed in the Maker had just lost their most holy and revered figure in their religious hierarchy. A temple of monumental import to their very foundation of belief was destroyed in a particularly violent manner. There was a part of her that felt sorry for them. They were desperate for anything resembling a sign. They had simply latched on to the first person who wandered into their path, though Faen wasn’t so foolish as to believe their reverence for  _ her  _ was unfounded. Still, that did not mean she was particularly fond of their reverence and titles and grand proclamations. 

“The breach remains,” Leliana said, crossing her arms defensively, “and your mark is the only hope of closing it.”

“That is  _ not  _ for you to decide!” Chancellor Roderick exclaimed.

The tension mounted and Faen was excited to see how the two would exchange their heated words. But this did not come to pass, for Cassandra intervened. She slammed a mammoth text onto the table they congregated around, its cover adorned with a symbol Faen did not recognize. At its center there appeared an eye and from it sprang dozens of arms arranged in a circular fashion. She could only place it as religious imagery.

“You know what this is, Chancellor.” Cassandra stated heavily, a gloved finger pointing resolutely at the cover, “A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act.”

Faen’s eyes were drawn to the swirling symbol adorning the cover, her eyes carefully tracing the arms of the eyes. She did not consider herself too awfully knowledgeable on the Andrastian faith, but Cassandra’s words built up a sense of dread in her.

“As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

Her time spent in the great libraries of humans granted her knowledge on that name. Faen knew little but the barest of principles for which the Inquisition was founded — the combat of dangerous magic. Faen’s features became rigid and unreadable. An indecipherable face was the key to survival, no matter the race dealt with. Samven, the clan’s foremost expert in all things subterfuge, had taught her that their first time together. She would never forget it.

Faen was not openly a mage. She had talent, yes, but she merely possessed knowledge of that talent, not knowledge of how to tame and use that talent. It was  _ she  _ who the Inquisition were originally set out to destroy. An ignorant mage was a dangerous one. She swallowed thickly.

Cassandra stalked towards the Chancellor, her posturing suggesting accusation and strong dislike. The Chancellor slowly backed up towards the door.

“We will close the breach, we will find those responsible, and we  _ will  _ restore order. With or without your approval.” Cassandra said. She had the Chancellor backed into a corner and he looked most uncomfortable.

Faen took great pleasure in this. 

With Cassandra finished, the Chancellor quickly left. It was refreshing to have the room void of his presence. 

Leliana came to rest over the Divine’s writ, her eyes soft at first, then visibly hardening. “This is the Divine’s directive.” she began, voice building to determination, “Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos.”

Sister Nightingale frowned. “But we aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.” she said defeatedly. 

Faen had heard stories of the Nightingale’s resolve, her unshakable faith. It wavered in this moment and Faen could not help but feel a tug of sadness. But Leliana quickly recovered, her brow setting hard once more.

“We have no choice. For now, we have enough. We have means to close the breach. We have people who believe in us. We have  _ you.” _ Cassandra said, voice hopeful.

Leliana smiled thinly. The moment was touching, if not a little _too _hopeful. But Faen’s mind stewed with questions.

“Forgive my ignorance... but the Inquisition of Old? You think it wise to bastardize magic at this time? Magic is quite possibly the only thing capable of sealing the breach.” she said.

“The Inquisition preceded the Chantry. It was not simply the official pursuit for the destruction of mages and magic. It was an order dedicated to finding order in a world of chaos.” Leliana said. 

“After, they laid down their banner and formed the Templar Order. But they have lost their way, as many others have.” Cassandra continued.

Their words did little to ease Faen’s discomfort. She’d had the occasional run-in with Templars in her travels. None were of great quality. There were times she was sure she was found out, her restraint on her magic weakening to a state that she could feel the energy prickling at her skin. Surely Templars could sense it. But they ignored her and went about their business without paying the elf girl any attention. She would watch from the shadows as the Templars would harass the locals. Watch as they degraded their charges to such a degree that Faen felt sick to her stomach. 

She wasn’t sure she knew the path they were supposed to be on. Cassandra spoke as if the Templar way had been lost recently, when it appeared to Faen that their way had always been lost. 

“We need those who can do what must be done united under a single banner once more.” Cassandra said. 

“This sounds remarkably like a holy war,” Faen said.

Surprisingly, neither woman took offense to this. “We are already at war,” Cassandra said, matter-of-factly, “You are already involved. The mark of this war is upon you. But as to whether that war is holy...that lies entirely with what we discover.”

The answer was not one Faen liked. She prided herself on lack of involvement in human affairs, despite being her line of practice bringing her into such close proximity to them. But this...this felt as if it were an entirely different level of involvement. She was to be the crux of this whole ordeal and she struggled under its weight.

“Then...we shall see how this goes.” Faen said. 

Cassandra smirked and extended her hand. At one point, the gesture would have baffled her. But Faen recognized the gesture as a common one amongst humans — one meant to seal deals and a literal extension of good faith. “Help us fix this before it’s too late,” Cassandra said.

Faen gazed at the hand for a moment. She had no choice. She was not so woefully embroiled in the Dalish custom of not giving a shit that she couldn’t realize the imminent threat the breach posed. It had shown itself to be one that didn’t discriminate. Running back to her clan whilst the mark was branded on her hand was foolish, selfish, and irresponsible. She awkwardly took Cassandra’s hand and shook it. 

“I will.” 

-+-

Faen was a bit lost on what to expect from officially calling the Inquisition. Humans were always excessive in the declarations, why should the calling of the only force in Thedas working to stop the breach be any different? But there was little in the way of ceremony. Leliana sent ravens carrying proclamations of the Inquisition’s revitalization and requesting aid to various corners of Thedas. A banner was unrolled and stationed above the Chantry’s doors, reminding everyone of the order they were now. The banner bore another icon of supposed import — apparently the imagery of eyes was integral to all things relating to the Chantry. While they were not directly tied to the Chantry, what with the Chantry publicly denouncing the existence of the Inquisition, it was impossible to escape the influence of the Chantry. The Inquisition was primarily formed by the two hands of the Divine. Their involvement spoke volumes.

She stood just outside the Chantry, unwilling to go in. What awaited her beyond those doors was another meeting she dreaded. 

_ An elf, the central backing of a Chantry offshoot. _

She chuckled lightly to herself.

“You there!”

Faen turned, for the voice was directly behind her. There stood what she assumed was a woman, though anyone feminine aspect was carefully hidden. The voice gave her away.

“Don’t just stand there! There’s work to be done.” the woman said, hands on her hips, “If anyone calls you ‘knife-ear’, report to me and I’ll handle it.”

Faen quirked a brow. “Pardon?” she asked.

The woman sighed. “Maker have mercy. I said-”

“I’m perfectly aware. But I’m not... here to work.” Faen said, “Cassandra needs to speak with me.”

“Ah. You’re  _ her.  _ Our apparent savior.” The woman lazily strolled up to her and examined her. Her scrutiny was intense. “Not what I expected. But you’ll do. Name’s Threnn, I’m the quartermaster of this mess.”

“I am Faen.”

Threnn nodded. “Well, lovely to meet you. Off you go.” And she walked off.

Faen frowned, her fears confirmed. There were those in the Inquisition who thought of her as the Herald — the embodiment of the Maker’s intervention. And then there were those who would never see her as anything other than an elf. Which was worse, she wondered.

Once again, she pushed past the large doors of the Chantry and entered the warm space. She teetered on calling it inviting. But Chantries were rarely inviting to her kind which was in direct opposition with the belief that  _ all  _ elves should turn to the Maker. 

Cassandra was waiting for her as soon as she entered. The Seeker took up pace beside her but did not speak. The silence was awkward until Cassandra interjected.

“Does it trouble you?” she asked. “The mark.”

From experience, the mark would faintly spark if her thoughts wandered to it. It fizzled and sparked at her side and she pulled it up to examine it. In the day or so since she’d woken from her comatose state, she had hardly noticed the mark. Often, she forgot she even had it. But some deep part of her was always aware of its presence. “I can’t tell if I’ve grown used to it or if it truly is no bother.” she said.

“Either way, that is good, no?” Cassandra asked.

Faen traced the mark with her thumb. “If you were supposedly marked by divinity you did not believe in and bore the weight of the world because of it, would you say that was good?” she asked.

Cassandra frowned and did not answer. 

Faen chastised herself. The bite of her tongue was uncalled for. It was very likely that Cassandra genuinely cared about the impact of the mark. But Faen threw that aside. Cassandra was a part of the mass that believed her to be a puppet of the Maker. That would never sit will with her.

“What matters is its stability. Solas believes a second attempt will successfully seal the breach, provided there is enough power.” Cassandra finally said, “The level of power required would be the same was the amount that initially created the breach. That is not easy to come by.” 

“You have something in mind.” Faen said. Her words held no question in them.

Cassandra nodded. “Yes.” 

With that, Cassandra pushed past the door to the room where all the tactics of the Inquisition was conducted. Before her, gathered around the table, were three figures, one of which was Sister Leliana. The other two had faces she had seen but no names she had heard. 

“May I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.” Cassandra said, motioning towards a man with the fringe of a burgundy lion’s mane. He bowed slightly. 

“Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear more before this is through.” he said. His hair, the color of spun gold, seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. 

“This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.” she continued, this time motioning to a bronze-skinned woman adorned all in gold. 

Josephine’s smile was brilliant and palpable, her teeth perfectly straight and the color of pearls. “ _ Andaran atish’an, _ ” she said.

Faen nearly choked. She stared wild-eyed at the woman. Was the blunt shape of her ears a mistake? Had she heard correctly? Humans lacked the lilt and harmony of the language but the words remained the same. A human had greeted her according to her people’s tongue. 

“You...speak elven?” she said, voice small.

Jospehine’s smile shifted from a welcoming one to one of embarrassment. “I’m afraid you’ve heard the extent of it, m’lady.” Her accent was unlike any she’d heard before. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And of course you know Sister Leliana.” Cassandra finished.

Leliana’s features were as hard and unreadable as ever. “My position here requires a degree of…” she began.

Cassandra interrupted. “She is our spymaster.”

Leliana frowned, her eyes glaring something skin to daggers at the Seeker. “Yes...tactfully put, Cassandra.” she mumbled. 

Faen remembered her manners. “A pleasure to meet you all.” she said, eyes tracing over all who had gathered around the table. 

“I mentioned that your mark requires more power to close the breach for good.” Cassandra said.

“Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help.” Leliana interjected.

Faen was not surprised. She’d heard much of the good Sister’s involvement with a Warden of no small magical talent. Her bias was obvious but it was one she agreed with. One that Commander Cullen did  _ not  _ agree with.

“And I still disagree. The Templars could serve just as well.” he said. 

Cassandra sighed. Obviously, this was a point of contention amongst the advisors. “We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark-”

“Might destroy us all.” Cullen said, his brow set with determination, “Templars could suppress the breach, weaken it so-”

“Pure speculation,” Leliana offered calmly. 

“ _ I  _ was a Templar. I know what they’re capable of.” Cullen said.

Faen’s perception of him, though extraordinarily limited, shifted. A Templar...it did not sit well with her. Her guard was always high and mighty but she needed to notably vigilant with a Templar in such close proximity. She tugged lightly at her collar, the material suddenly scratching at her neck.

“Unfortunately, neither group will even speak with us yet.” Josephine said. Faen wondered if she’d forever be the voice of reason. She looked to Faen. “The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition — and you, specifically.”

Such a revelation was not shocking or earth-shattering. Chancellor Roderick had voiced his opinions on the Inquisition and her quite clearly. No one was under the assumption he was in the minority. 

“I didn’t expect any less. A heathen elf, one who feeds upon the flesh of lost children and lies with wolves, acting as Andraste’s Herald? Blasphemy.” Faen said. She caught Cassandra’s flash of shame. 

“It has very little to do with you being an elf.” she said.

“Do not fool yourself. It has  _ everything  _ to do with me being an elf, just as the founding of the Inquisition has everything to do with the Divine.” Faen said bitterly. “The Inquisition is of religion in everything but name.  _ Andrastian  _ religion.”

“That does not mean our judgment will be clouded by it.” Leliana said.

“Maybe not but if we are to approach the mages or Templars, one need understand the implications of being founded by the two hands of the Divine.” Faen said.

Cullen quirked a brow. “Meaning?” he asked.

Faen rested her hands on the table, her eyes scanning the old map spread across it for answers. “Both groups are at odds with the Chantry in some way. Even if the Chantry distances itself from us, our ties to them cannot be ignored. Even if we were in the Chantry’s good graces, I suspect neither group would be too willing to help.” she said.

“I doubt either the mages or Templars would further agitate the Chantry.” Cassandra said.

“You’d be surprised. The mages have made it very clear where they stand and show no signs of relenting.” Cullen said.

“As have the Templars,” Leliana countered, “That does not mean either one are beyond reason. It would not hurt to mend relations with the Chantry. You forget that while fractured, the Chantry is still a powerful enemy to have.”

Faen supposed she was right. “Any idea how to mend those relations?” she asked.

“Those clerics that remain have denounced you, the Herald of Andraste, as blasphemous. And we heretics for harbouring you.” Josephine said, “It will not be easy to sway them to our way.”

“That part confuses me: how am  _ I  _ the Herald of Andraste?” Faen asked.

“People saw what you did at the temple, how you stopped the breach from growing.” Cassandra said, “They have also heard about the woman in the rift when we first found you. Many believe her to be Andraste.”

“Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading-” Leliana began.

“Which we have not,” Cassandra interrupted. 

Leliana was visibly put out with the Seeker but she continued anyway. “The point is that everyone is talking about you, no matter the light.” she said. 

Cullen extended a small smile. “It’s quite the title, isn’t it? How do you feel about it?” he asked.

Her immediate reaction was simple — she hated it with a fiery passion. She was not Andraste’s puppet. If anything, her actions were guided by elven gods. But...Faen saw the power in being deemed Andraste’s Herald. “I...do not know.” she admitted.

“The Chantry has decided that for you, it would seem.” he said.

“People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you’re that sign of hope.” Leliana said.

“And to others, a symbol of everything that has gone wrong.” Josephine added.

The duality of the situation, of her title was most interesting. How typical of the Chantry to denounce anything out of their control. Many would see their trick as one dictated by logic. Faen knew different. Her dealings with the Chantry were extensive — she knew they quite candidly feared her. They had every right to.

“So that leaves us with a question: what do we do?” Faen asked.

Of course, Leliana had an idea. “A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak with you.” she said. “She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I do. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

Faen was skeptical of this Mother Giselle, such was the custom of the Dalish. Giselle’s motives were a mystery and one she couldn’t begin to unravel until she spoke with her. She disliked it. Her role in the clan was to gather intel on human activities and such but rarely was she thrown into a situation with little more than the woman simply wanting to talk. 

“Are we sure she is no threat to us?” Faen asked.

“She is but a single mother. If she were a threat, you could easily dispatch her. But I doubt she is a threat. We have reports of her tending to the refugees in the Hinterlands.” Leliana said.

“Look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition’s influence while there.” Cullen said.

“We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley. There is no one in a better position than you to recruit them.” Josephine added. 

They had points but she lacked the charisma to sway people in favor of anything. She was too quiet, too reserved to make bold statements. Her bluntness was as equally off-putting as her silence. “I can certainly try.” she said.

-+-

The chilly air of Haven, the smell of fresh snow and smoky fires was more refreshing than she originally thought. She’d spent countless hours cooped up in that damp, dark Chantry, her world being lit by dozens of candles. Actual light and fresh air was welcomed.

In many ways, Haven mimicked the clan. People bustled about, completing their work. There was chatter and laughter. But there was a distinct lack of sharply pointed ears, the majority of which were blunt and rounded. Humans did not make her uncomfortable, not necessarily, but to be surrounded by them in such numbers...she felt small.

_ You are not alone,  _ she reminded herself. 

Solas. 

She had not seen him since she woke but she had hoped he remained. 

Faen set out to find him but Haven was surprisingly difficult to navigate. There was little variation in the cabins and huts and she hadn’t the slightest idea where to start searching for him. She wandered aimlessly for a time, passing through congregated masses and circling back around to where she started several times. She sighed, her breath pouring out of her in a small cloud before her lips. She became aware of the chill settling into her limbs and sat down next to the first fire she came upon. Surprisingly, the fire had no occupants and for that, she was thankful. 

She warmed her small hands at the fire, her thoughts off and wandering about the whole camp. She was so absorbed in them that she did not notice a familiar face sit down next to her. 

“You’re a hard woman to come by,” Varric said, his voice rich and gravely. It was pleasant. 

Faen looked to him, noticed the rosy tip of his nose. She decided he had a friendly face, a demeanor that welcomed you to sit next to him and share a drink. “Not by choice. Cassandra keeps me busy.” she said.

Varric chuckled. “Cassandra does that. Speaking of her…” he said, lowering his voice and leaning in closer, “Now that she’s out of earshot, how are you holding up?”

She was taken aback by his question. She did not expect anyone present in Haven to care much about her feelings regarding the mess at hand. “I, uh...well. I don’t know.” she admitted, “I haven’t had time to process everything.”

“I don’t think anyone has,” Varric said. He pulled back and rested his elbows on his knees. He sighed deeply. “I still can’t believe you survived  _ Cassandra.  _ You’re lucky you were out cold for most of her frothing rage. She wanted you dead.”

Faen snorted. “Oh, how her tune has changed. Now that she sees me as Andraste’s Herald, she sees the use in me,” she mumbled. 

“Can’t say I blame her. For seeing the use in you, that is. Not the Herald thing. We’ve been staring at the breach for days now, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it.” he said, shaking his head in disbelief at the situation, “‘Bad for morale’ is an understatement. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

“I have trouble wrapping my head around it as well. I don’t remember anything. Perhaps it’s best I don’t. But me walking away with my life…” Faen said, trailing off at the end.

“Tickles in a bad way?” Varric said, smiling.

She chuckled. “Yes. It doesn’t sit right with me. If this was all predestined by the Maker, shaped and given life by his hand, I don’t know what to say.” 

“Are you Andrastian?” he asked.

“Not particularly, no. Does it matter? I have such little say in any of this that it borders on pathetic.” 

“It matters. More than you could know.” 

What he meant alluded her. She wanted desperately to understand, to question him about what it was she did not know. But she couldn’t do it. She did not want to know. 

Varric sighed and looked up at the sky, his eyes filled with simultaneous awe and fear. She followed his eyes to the breach. It was a giant scar in the sky, splitting it into two discernible parts. From it, eminnated a bitter green that bleed into the surrounding sky. Boulders and other such debris from the other side swirled gently near it. It was sublime in a way that only terrible things could be. 

She had an urge to fix it, one separate from duty and the mark. No, this urge came from some place deeper, more primal in nature. She wanted to take the fear out of Varric’s eyes and replace it with...something. Desire, not duty. She wanted to fix it on her own terms.

“Why did you stay?” she asks softly.

Varric gives a short chuckle. “I’d like to think I’m selfish and irresponsible. I’ve got an image to protect, after all. But this... _ this  _ goes beyond being selfish and irresponsible.” he said, “Thousands of people died on that mountain. Good people. I was almost one of them. And now the world’s gone to shit. Even I, Varric Tethras, selfish bastard, can’t ignore that. It just isn’t right.”

She smiled. “Well, it’s good to have you.” she said and he smiled in return.

“That it is. Who else is going to loosen these tight assholes up?” he said, arm sweeping across the whole of Haven. A human man, arms full of firewood, walked by just as he spoke. He shot them a nasty glare. Faen suppressed a chuckle.

“I’ve read your stories.  _ The Tale of the Champion. Hard in Hightown. _ ” she said, “Your perspective should prove colorful.”

“Maybe.” he said, shrugging, “But I’ve written enough tragedies to know where this is going.”

She frowned. “You think this a tragedy?” she questioned.

He scoffed. “What else  _ is  _ this? I don’t see too many ways this could end favorably.” he said.

Her eyes returned to the ugly scar in the sky. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you are wrong. Either way, who knew Varric Tethras was such a pessimist?” she said.

“I thought you said you read my books.”

She was about to reply when her eyes caught sight of the person she had originally set out to find. Solas stood, back to her and conversing with someone in richly colored robes. 

“Solas…” she muttered and managed to stand despite the stiffness in her cold joints. 

“Ah. Outshined by the elf,” Varric said jokingly, “I’m sure you have all sorts of questions for him.”

Faen smiled and thanked him for the talk. She quickly closed the distance between the alcove where Solas was and the fire she sat at previously. By the time she reached him, the person in robes he was speaking to had gone and left him alone. The crunch of her boots behind him gave her away.

“I see you yet remain,” she said, smiling.

“If only to speak with the chosen of Andraste, blessed hero sent to save us all.” Solas said, returning her smile, though his was tinged with mischief.

Unlike the humans, Solas did not say it with any reverence. If anything, the way in which he uttered her divinity was of mock reverence. It was greatly appreciated. “Ah, yes. The carefully hand-picked embodiment of Andraste’s grace and will, flaunting around in the wicked body of a she-elf.” she said scornfully.

Solas’s smile broadened. “Joke as you may, you  _ are  _ the key to our salvation.” he said.

He walked past her, right to the edge of the footpath leading away from the huddle of huts. She followed him, followed his gaze towards the breach. 

“I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancients wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war has its heroes. I just wonder what kind you will be.” he said.

Faen looked out over Haven. Watched the workings of the village as though she were not present. His words made her realize that everyone of them was looking to  _ her  _ to stop this madness. Of course, she  _ knew  _ she held the one thing in the world capable of fixing the world, but it was entirely different to be wholly aware of it. She frowned. “I do not want to be a hero.” she lamented, “I do not lust for glory and fame. I want…”

He turned to her, his eyes sad. “These people care little for what you want, I’m afraid. The world does not come apart and ask what it is you desire.” he said.

He was right. It was foolish to consider what she wanted. 

“...What did you mean? Ruins and battlefields?” she asked, altering the subject slightly.

“Any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds.” he said, his gaze intensifying, “When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has seen.”

Faen’s mind wandered to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, what dreams had lain there amongst its grand halls. 

“You said you go deep into the Fade. Do demons bother you?” she continued.

“But of course. It is their very nature to entice to their wickedness. They tempt me no more than a brightly colored fruit begs you to eat it.” he said, the corner of his lip curling up, “It is a matter of resolve and careful navigation.”

Something unusual spiked in her. An emotion she wasn’t too terribly acquainted with. Could it be...jealousy? Yes, that was it. Ever since her magical talents had reared their heads, Faen had been afraid to venture too deeply into the Fade. Her dreams, which should have been her private haven, were often haunted by malicious figures and horrifying sights. A’len had informed her that to exert too much control over her dreams would attract demons to her and the product of their infatuation was seldom good. She wanted his talents, his abilities, and knowledge. She hungered for a glimpse into the worlds and vision he frequented.

“It sounds...amazing.” she whispered. 

“It is. It’s a field not many are well-versed in, sadly. To see that which has been lost...it is never as flashy and immediate as a fireball or bolt of lightning.” he said, “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand year old dream? Always raw and stimulating.”

“What have we lost?” she asked.

Solas paused. His eyes lost their focus and seemed to gaze into nothing. But there was something in them. Something she could not place. It was grim.

“More than you could ever know,” he said gravely.

Faen shifted uncomfortably. It seemed there was much she didn’t know and she wanted to rectify that. But how? She hadn’t a clue.

“I will stay,” he said, as if convincing himself and not her, “At least until the Breach is closed.”

She smiled. “Was that in doubt?” she asked.

Solas frowned. “I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.” he said.

Of course, he was correct. Any mage who lent themselves to the Inquisition lent themselves to the fear of being snatched up and sent away. The Inquisition was an arm of the Chantry in all but name as it currently stood. 

“I would not let them touch you.” Faen said firmly. Surprise spread across his features.

“Oh? What would you do to stop them?” he asked cautiously.

“Whatever it took.” she said, “You came to help and I refuse to let them use that against you. I will not let the influence of the Chantry direct the Inquisition. You have my word: you are safe.”

Solas remained silent for a moment. Faen questioned his belief in her. He had no reason to trust her and every suspicion to believe the opposite. But he relented. “Thank you,” he said and in his voice was relief and honest appreciation.

-+-

They left for the Hinterlands the following week. Leliana’s scouts had been sent in advance, a sort of herald for the Herald, and gathered intel on the situation there. From all the reports she had read, the situation was somewhat dire. The fighting between apostate mages and rogue Templars ravaged the land with a ferocity Faen had only heard of in the most brutal of wars. Innocent people seemed to be dying at a pace faster than that of those who actually engaged in this war. With all that said, the Inquisition had secured a foothold in the Hinterlands and were awaiting the arrival of the Herald to plan their next step.

Preparation for the trip from Haven to the Hinterlands had been intense. The search for mounts suitable enough to carry Faen and her party had been a long one. The mounts present in Haven were used to simple farmwork — ploughing and pulling heavy carts loaded with tools and what had been reaped. It was only by the grace of Cullen’s arduous attempts at convincing the few Templars present in Haven that they secured mounts capable of the journey. Faen’s mount, a Taslin Strider by the name of ‘Puck’, had only been handed over from his handler once Faen promised to brush through his pale mane at least a hundred strokes every night.

After the acquisition of the mounts came the gathering of the provisions and herbs for potions. Adan did the best he could with what he had but what he could spare was little. The food was a tad bit easier to come by but Threnn could only stretch what they had so far. 

With all that concluded, they had set out towards Redcliff with the intentions of finding and securing this Mother Giselle. Faen felt as if they were walking into a trap. She stewed in her saddle, her mare lagging behind the procession of the others. Ahead of her, she was aware of Varric and Cassandra’s strained banter but the specifics of their exchange alluded her, for she truly did not care. The last word she’d heard was “Hawke” and after that, she retreated into her own thoughts.

Retreated so far that she did not notice Solas stall his pace to fall back in line with her.

“I have been meaning to speak with you. I saw no appropriate time for this other than now.” Solas said.

She looked up at him. He was not looking at her but at the rest of their procession. Cassandra and Varric as well as their small guarded escort were quite far ahead.

“You are a mage.” he said simply.

It took a great deal to rock Faen to her core. The amount of horrors and marvels she’d seen numbered high. She’d seen children beheaded, seen women suffer through days of agony to push forth from their aching bodies new life, had heard the crack of thunder through snow. Needless to say, hardly anything truly rattled her enough to have all the words stolen from her. But Solas had managed it.

She had no clue what to say. She felt as if her eyes were bulging from their sockets they were so wide. She racked her brain for any mention of a slip of power. Had she faltered? Her guard was always incredibly high, this was something she prided herself on, but had it slipped? It would have had to. But when? While she slept? 

“I-I…” she stammered, unable to find the words to express her shock and horror.

“One of no small talent.” he continued. 

“You a-accuse me of this and…” she began.

“I accuse you of nothing. One cannot accuse you with a truth with which nothing is wrong, can they?” he said. He finally turned to her. His eyes held that same intensity as before. “I felt your magic stir as you slept that day. At first, I thought it simply a pulse of the mark. But this...your magic held a distinct hum, one entirely separate from that of the mark.”

She swallowed thickly and held her tongue. 

“I considered that you knew not of your power but that would not suffice. I felt how starved your magic is, how horribly still it had become. You knew and willingly suppressed it. Even then, it was still immense. It took great patience and will to tamp it down to such a depth that you did.”

“Please…” she begged, her eyes avoiding him and looking ahead to see that no one was listening in. “I beg of you, do not tell them.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Your reasons are your own.” he said. His voice...it was oddly comforting. It carried the weight of honesty in it. “But I do extend to you a proposal — one you should heavily consider.”

She inhaled deeply through her nose. The smell of the earth flooded her senses. “Out with it,” she whispered.

“You allow me to teach you, in secret, the ways of magic.” he said quietly, “Your power is great and you have done well to manage it in secret. But you are a serious threat as you are.” 

“And what am I?”

“Untrained and ignorant. I am not one to say that you could have gone your whole life with a firm grasp on it but with the mark, your magic is as unstable as ever.”

She mulled his proposal over quite thoroughly. In all reality, she had nothing to lose from this venture. Except...if they were caught, what would people think? The Herald of Andraste, not a known mage, learning parlor tricks from an apostate? She wondered what the rational conclusion would be. 

He was right though. She  _ was  _ a danger. Faen had a grasp on her magic now but the mark was unpredictable. On occasion, she could feel her own magic bubble uncomfortably. 

“Alright.” she said, voice low.

He nodded.

“Why are you doing this?” she wondered.

“As strange as it seems, I have an obligation to you. You are quite possibly the only person capable of sealing the breach and for that, I believe I can grant you some insight into the forces you toy with.” Solas said. He paused and Faen felt as if he had more to say. “And...I did not forget your words. The ones you spoke entailing your willingness to do whatever it takes to secure my freedom.”

She had no words for him. They rode in silence the rest of the way.

  
  
  


  
  



	2. A Matter of Development

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I have no idea how grammar works. Please forgive me. Also do forgive if Solas is written out of character. I really struggle with writing him because...we just haven't seen much of how he TRULY feels. His whole time with the Inquisition would have had to have been tainted by his past and I just don't know enough about who he was and what happened to accurately write him in character.   
Oh, yes! I also have no idea how magic works so I took so liberties with it to explain some stuff. I feel like it's a hella stupid and somewhat illogical way to explain magic but...I tried. I'm not scientist and I have no idea what field to research.   
Other than that, please enjoy!

Surprisingly, Mother Giselle’s request to speak with the Herald was genuine. As was her extension of help. Though it was no grand offering of copious forces or declaration that would turn the tides of their effort, what Mother Giselle offered was generous enough. She gave Faen names and agreed to coordinate a meeting between members in the Chantry and the Inquisition. Faen saw little point in a meeting. Cassandra insisted it would do good to at least make a show of attempting to mend Chantry relations. But Faen saw it as an attempt to buddy up with the Chantry. Being the Herald put her at the forefront of this Inquisition and she would do everything in her power to steer it far from the Chantry.

Faen held something akin to mild respect for the Chantry, mainly due to its extensive efforts to archive nearly every historical event since its inception and its ability to act harshly and effectively, but she lacked trust for it. A religious organization, no matter how prolific, had no place in restoring order in a world as diverse as this one. Beyond the desire to bring unbiased peace, Faen held a much more personal distaste for the Chantry and it lied deeply in the Chantry’s treatment of her people. The strife between the Andrastians and the heathen elves was a long and vicious one. While her people and the Chantry no longer waged open war, the Chantry was still in the practice of outright assassinating anything the elves did. Their victory over the elves was felt in every aspect of her life. Members of her clan found it odd and somewhat offensive that she respected the Chantry. Most of Clan Lavellan, though peaceful, held a deep-seated hatred for the Chantry and would not shed a tear if it burned. Faen always politely reminded them the importance of respecting the enemy. To a degree. 

She would never willingly partake in any act precious to Chantry beliefs, never come out in defense of it, but she would not act the fool and say there was nothing to admire. The blatant and extensive erasure of her people’s history and contributions to the world was sickening yet impressive. 

Keeper Deshanna would have been most horrified to see how civil she was being with the faithful. Especially with Mother Giselle. The Mother’s faith clearly ran incredibly deep, so deep that she was able to put pesky politics and fear aside to grant the blasphemous Herald an audience and go out of her way to actually offer her  _ help.  _ Faen usually had little patience or care for the profoundly faithful. But Mother Giselle...reminded her of A’len. Not in spirit or action, no. A’len was a grouchy woman, one whose tongue was often barbed, and her care rarely extended beyond herself or Faen. No. It was Mother Giselle’s face that struck her the most. The likeness was most certainly not exact but it was there. The wide-set mouth, the sagging cheeks, the wrinkles around her eyes, the deep nasolabial folds. Even her voice, mature and wizened, reminded her of A’len. She felt as if she were grasping at straws, for the two women were more different than similar, but still. There was no denying her likeness to A’len.

Faen would never admit to missing the old woman. She had been dead for two years and Faen had never had more freedom in her life. Two years void of her nagging and subtle insults, of her awful cooking and biting remarks. Along with never admitting to missing A’len, she’d never admit to loving her either. But deep down, she held both. 

It was the mixture of these two, both missing her dearly and loving her strongly, that made their final moments together difficult to recall. She remembered it with eerie clarity but it was not a moment she looked back on with fondness. It seemed so long ago…

Her eyes glazed over and there was nothing before them. She knew that a fire sat in front of her, she knew that there were tents surrounding her, but she could see none of them. All she saw was that moment…

“I’m going to gather wood.” 

She blinked a few times to disperse the image from her mind. Faen looked up at him all clad in his furs. The night was cold and it was beginning to settle into her limbs. The fire before her was dimming.

“I require your assistance, Faen,” Solas continued. He extended her a hand.

Once again, she found herself blinking repeatedly, this time trying to decide if the image her eyes saw was real. “Me?” she asked.

“Yes, you.” he clarified.

Both Cassandra and Varric stared curiously at the two elves. “I’ll go, Chuckles.” Varric said, setting aside his flask.

Solas raised a hand to halt him. “No. The Herald’s company will do just fine.” he said. 

Varric froze. He wasn’t expecting those words. His eyes darted between the two of them once more. Something mischievous settled into their depths and a sly smirk spread across his lips. “Oh, I see.” he said, chuckling.

“What is there to see?” Cassandra asked, genuinely confused.

“Nothing, Seeker. Keep to yourself.” Varric said, leaning back upon the log. The movement opened his shirt even wider across his hairy chest. It  _ was  _ a magnificent chest.

Cassandra frowned and returned to slurping her soup.

Faen looked to Solas and back at his hand. She slid her palm into his and was met with quite a firm grasp. It surprised her at first, the strength in his hand, but the more she looked at Solas, the more she realized his hands were not the only surprisingly strong parts about him. His shoulders broad and toned, far more so than even the warriors in her clan. His forearms were as equally toned and sinewy as his shoulders. 

The pair of them stalked out of the ring of light and warmth provided by the fire and slipped into the shadows. Once they were deep enough into the woods, the chatter of their camp and the brush too thick for the moonlight to pierce through, Solas conjured a ball of light. Faen marveled over it briefly before she spoke.

“They think we’ve snuck away,” she informed him.

“We  _ have _ snuck away.”

“Yes, but not as some romantic rendezvous.”

“Does it bother you, Faen?”

“No. Does it bother you?”

He chuckled softly. “There are far worse people to be mistakenly taken with,” he said.

She frowned. “I see you hold me in high regard…” she mumbled.

“On the contrary, I do, in fact, hold you in high regard. You are...hm. Interesting.” he said.

Her heart skipped a beat. She had a fondness for Solas and found him interesting as well. She did not expect him to return that interest.“Oh?”

“Yes. The fact that your body has not suffered because of the mark, your ability to restrain your magic with such precision and ease is all very fascinating.” 

_ Oh.  _ Her frown deepened. “You find my magical capabilities interesting. Not me.” she said.

“I do not know you.” he said truthfully, “But I would like to.”

They walked a little while more, Solas never once stopping to gather fallen branches. 

“What are we doing?” she finally asked.

“Getting far away from camp.”

“Why?”

He turned to her, his orb of light casting stark shadows over his features. He looked...eerie in that moment. “Would you prefer they catch you practicing magic?” he asked simply.

Realization dawned on her. He had dragged her out here to make good on his promise to tutor her. A slight smile crept into her lips. She felt something akin to giddiness. Such was a rare emotion. Faen considered herself to be much subdued to experience giddiness but here she was, giddy and excited. 

She snatched up his hand, held it between her small ones and gave it a good squeeze. 

“Thank you,” she whispered earnestly.

She couldn’t be sure, the light of the orb was fading and the moonlight was far too dim, but she was almost certain she caught the faintest hint of a blush spread across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. His eyes scanned her face for something and then looked down at their hands. He gave a reassuring squeeze and smiled. 

“You’re welcome,  _ da’len.” _

-+-

Her hands were small and warm, surprisingly soft and gentle in their grip. He revelled in it. It had been proper  _ ages _ since someone had exchanged such a gesture with him and he...well. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to act. While he slept the majority of those ages, his body still hungered for touch. He had done little, if anything, to satiate it. 

Solas wanted to keep his hand nestled between her own for forever, sap warmth from her palms until the end of days. But he could not. The issues pressing down upon them were far too weighty to allow oneself to become absorbed in small, self-indulgent pleasures. 

After a brief moment, she released him and they returned to delving further into the woods. They reached a point where Solas was satisfied with the distance from camp and he pulled the staff from his back and set it on the ground. Faen’s eyes rolled over the weapon, the admiration and slight confusion twinkling in her eyes. 

“I trust you’ve seen a staff before,” he began, expending a small amount of mana to fortify the orb of light hanging over them, “But I doubt you have felt the smoothness of the wood in your hand, felt the power that courses through it as you bend this world to your will.”

She looked up at him, her large eyes wide with anticipation. She hesitated for a moment, her small hands hovering above the staff. In her eyes was a question:  _ may I truly? _

“Go ahead,” he said, motioning to the staff.

Faen ran her willowy fingers of the shaft, tracing a particular grain of wood up until the tips of her fingers reached the head of the staff. She palmed the polished crystal at the top. 

“So...you can  _ feel  _ the magic in the staff?” she questioned, her eyes glued to the weapon.

“Yes. It allows you to grasp the amount of energy you are consuming and expelling.” he said. She nodded. “A staff is naturally the mage’s weapon of choice but it is merely a single conduit from which magic is expelled. You need not a staff to cast a spell. Staves simply make spellcasting easier.”

“How so?”

“All staves are crafted so that you need only pour your energy, mana, into it to cast. The staves of higher craft already possess a great deal of magic within them. But all staves have an intrinsic store of mana within them. The staves themselves are responsible for using that mana to morph thought into physical. All that is required of you is to know the formulation of the spell.” Solas said, “Manual spellcasting, on the other hand, requests that you not only know the formulation but that you also personally weave the mana to fit your demands.”

She looked up from the staff. Her brow quirked slightly.

“What you’re saying is that manual spellcasting takes longer?” she asked.

“Not necessarily. Spellcasting without a staff requires more focus and more effort to properly cast the spell. I would argue that manual spellcasting is more formidable than spellcasting with a staff. Often times manually cast spells are more potent and precise.” he said.

She nodded and grabbed the staff. Felt the weight of it in her hand. Faen would find it surprisingly heavy. She gave it a tentative twirl, her wrists obviously quite accustomed to the movement. He expected no less. Much of her style with her blades involved the heavy use of her wrists. 

“Of course, not all spells can be cast through the use of a staff.” he continued.

She gave another twirl, this one ending in her stabbing the blunt end of the staff outward to punctuate. 

“How do you use the staff as a weapon?” she asked.

“Like I said, all staves retain some capacity of mana without your input. The level of this mana determines the harm the staff causes.” he stood up from his perch on a stump and held out his hand, “But you will not be utilizing a staff, lest you desire to have everyone know you possess the aptitude for magic.”

She handed the staff over to him. Once in his hand, the crystal at the tip lit up and doused the clearing in fiery light. The staff seemed to hum vibrantly in his grip. Energy, ancient and powerful, flowed strongly in his hands.

“Have you ever used magic?” he asked.

“Not with any finesse. Or any control really. When it first manifested, things would catch fire. Bowls, baskets, aravels. It...frightened me.” she replied.

He nodded. He expected as much. When their powers manifest, young mages will find discover objects in their vicinity will catch fire. Fire magic is the most primal, most energetic and fierce of all magics. It was always the first to manifest. Solas theorized that this was due to its wild and unpredictable nature finding a kindred spirit in youth. 

“And who taught you to reign your magic in?”

“A’len. She raised me.”

“What was her magical background?”

“She had none.”

He paused. It was not the answer he expected. Most peculiar. “None? At all?” he asked.

“A’len was not a mage. I...it’s more complicated than I am lead to believe.” she said.

He frowned. He had an entire line of inquiry prepared but Solas had the suspicion that even she did not have all the answers. Besides, it wasn’t entirely important. 

“Well, whatever she was, she taught you well. That isn’t to diminish your own skill.” he said, “To have such a practiced and perfect hold over your magic is on a level of dominance I have not seen in this age.”

“ _ This _ age? You say that as if you have lived through a great deal of them.” she said, a touch of humor in her voice. 

It was as if all the blood in his body froze still for a moment. His heart ceased to beat for a moment, his eyes hung wide open, his lips parted. While she meant nothing by her words, surely, hearing them outloud was enough to strike a fear in him that was powerful. He swallowed thickly.

“I have...dreamt of ages past. I have seen heroes of all sorts, from all ages, from all backgrounds. This age lacks the valor and intensity of those past. But I see it in you, that strength and power. It is...refreshing.” he said.

She blushed. “Well, thank you. I do not see what you mean but I thank you nonetheless.” she said shyly. 

He smiled. “One does not need to see their own worth to be worthy.” he said.

Solas spent the next hour or so explaining to her the formulation for a simple spell — he started her with a spell to call forward a flame. Faen took to the formulation instantly. After that, came actually forcing it into reality.

“Focus like you’ve never focused before. Navigate your way to your magic. Do not be afraid to unleash it but do be cautious — you can easily lose control. Let a small bit of it free. Your body will know how much mana it can give before it is depleted.” Solas said. 

Her eyes were closed, her legs were crossed beneath her. 

“Let the magic flow through you. You are safe here. There is no one to condemn you for feeling it wash over you, through you.” he continued, guiding her along through the process.

Her brow dipped for a moment. She had reached somewhat of an obstacle and he was about to offer help when her features smoothed and she inhaled deeply.

“Do you have it?”

“I do.”

“Now recall the formulation. Give it purpose, give it life. But do not start a wildfire. Remember the nature of fire, know that it is unpredictable and eager to flourish. Do not let it overcome you.” 

Silence and stillness. There was no breeze to ghost over them, there was no rustle of the leaves in the trees, no chatter of life around them. The world sat quietly and waited. As did Solas. 

When he was almost certain there would be no fire, it happened. A burst of fire, hot and proud, roared to life before his eyes. It was wild at first, desperate to escape and erratic. Solas prepared to intervene but she conquered it and bent it to her will. A small, swirling ball of fire came to rest before her crossed legs.

She opened her eyes and he could see the elation in her face. She giggled, clearly proud of her work. He was proud as well. 

“It does not need to remain stationary.” he informed her.

Faen began to carefully move the ball around, her hands coming to guide it through the air with ease. Her movements were timid, then cautious, and then finally confident. She threw the ball around as if she’d been doing it for years. Another swell of pride blossomed within him. She was taking to it fast. Her promise was greater than he anticipated.

“Very good,  _ da’len. _ ”

Her smile widened. She played with her fire for a little while longer, growing bolder with each passing minute. Solas did not have the heart to reign her, though he knew he should have. Thankfully, her actions lacked the brashness to start a genuine fire. 

“How do I...put it out?” she asked when she grew tired of sustaining it.

He knelt behind her, his arms encasing her small frame his hands wrapping around her wrists. She stiffened but allowed the touch. “Let the spell slip from your mind — do not unravel the formula or the direction this takes will grow quite poor.” he said. He eased her hands together, almost crushing the ball of fire, until they were touching and the ball ceased to exist.

With the task accomplished, he retreated from her. A quick glance at her face revealed the faintest hint of a flush upon her cheeks. 

“You did beautifully,” he said, “Conjuring and sustaining such a powerful flame is not an easy task for one so new to the craft. I imagine you are quite drained.”

She looked at him sheepishly. Faen ran her palms up and down her thighs. “Yes...I did not realize how exhausting it could be.” she said.

“It is to be expected, especially in your case. Novice mages know little in the ways of regulating their expended mana. With time, you’ll get the feel for how to correctly pace yourself. Spells that exhaust you now will eventually consume no more energy than snapping your fingers.”

Faen stood up from her spot on the ground, her legs wobbly enough to the point where Solas had to hold her up.

“Careful, Faen.” he said.

Again, she stiffened under the pressure of his hands but she did not push him away or resist. Neither did she lean in and wholly accept his aid. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

Once she regained her composure, she straightened her back and took a step away from him. “Yes, well, we should be getting back, shouldn’t we? Else they launch a search-”

Her words were interrupted by the rustle and crunch of leaves underfoot. The pair froze instantly. Solas’s hand crept behind his back to grasp his staff, ready at any moment to pull it free. Faen did the same with the blades at her back. Truthfully, whatever stalked their way could have been anything from benevolent to malevolent. Perhaps Varric and Cassandra had set out to find them. But Solas had a feeling it was not as innocent as that. The crunching got closer and closer and as it neared, Solas and Faen shared a look. Much was communicated for it. There was a voiceless recognition of a plan. Solas would cast winter’s grasp and Faen would charge with her blades, hopefully shattering whatever came their way into a million pieces.

But their plan was not needed. A rough looking black cat emerged from the treeline. Faen’s gasp was sharp. She quickly sheathed her blades and ran to greet the cat.

“Gitta!” she exclaimed, the elation and surprise in her voice strong. She gathered up the small creature in her arms and buried her face into its black fur. The cat gave a rugged meow. 

“Oh, by the grace of the Mythal, you’re alive!” she continued, pausing to pepper the creature with kisses, “Where have you been, foolish girl? I thought I’d lost you.”

Solas did not want to intrude so he remained silent, granting Faen this little bit of peace. The cat meowed once more. It hissed when it looked at him. Solas narrowed his eyes. He had no opinion on cats — they were nowhere near as loyal as dogs but he did not dislike them for it.

“A friend of yours, yes?” Solas asked.

Faen turned to him. Her large eyes glittered in the light of the orb. “Yes,” she breathed, taking a moment to kiss the cat once more, “She comes and goes as she pleases but she is everywhere. I had not seen her since the Conclave and I didn’t even realize she was gone until now.”

Solas extended a hand to pet the cat. The creature whipped its head around and hissed once more. It was then he caught sight of its eyes. Impossibly green with black slits to split to center in half. He knew then. He pulled his hand back and nodded at the creature.

“Well, as you were saying, we should probably get back.” he said. 

Faen stood, Gitta still in her arms, and followed him back to camp. 

The walk back to camp was considerably shorter than the walk away from camp. When they emerged through the thick sprinkle of trees, they were pleased to see that the fire remained lit, though it had shrunk to half the size they had left it at. At the sight of the flames, Solas became aware of how the extremities furthest from his trunk had begun to go numb from the cold. 

“Finally,” Cassandra breathed, her shoulders visibly relaxing. 

At her side, Varric smirked. “Where’s the wood?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

Solas groaned internally. They forgot the wood. Their ruse had been entirely forgotten in the excitement of her magic. He cut Faen a glance and saw that her face was as equally impassive as his. The cat squirmed in her arms.

“Is that a  _ cat? _ ” Cassandra asked, changing the subject.

Faen looked at Gitta. “Yes. She’s mine. We found her in the woods.” she said.

Solas nodded. “We thought her some manner of malevolent creature. It stalked us for some time before it emerged.” he said, easily crafting a lie, though not one he was necessarily proud of and convinced would work, “I spent some time tending to her injuries and Faen was so overcome with relief she couldn’t move.”

“Yes,” Faen agreed, “Poor thing is half starved to death. She’s no more than skin and bones.”

Cassandra appeared to be convinced but Varric...the dwarf was not so convinced. Solas expected no less. Varric had his preconceptions about the reasoning behind their foray into the woods and Solas imagined just how much it would take to sway him out of this belief. There was a time in his long life where the perception of the false regarding him would bother him enough to the point where he would forcefully correct any of those false beliefs. But that was in his youth. Now, he knew the only belief that mattered was his own. Everyone else be damned. Varric could believe anything he wanted about him and Faeneth. Solas knew the truth. There was nothing between the child of the Dalish and him. He could not be taken with anyone so disconnected from this world and themselves. If anything, he pitied her. She had unwillingly become embroiled in a plot of his own design that she would know nothing about until too late. But he pitied nearly everyone he came across in this age. She was nothing special.

-+-

It was decided that the women would share a tent. Solas and Varric would share their own tent on the opposite side of the small camp. Faen was still reeling from both finding her beloved Gitta and successfully utilizing her magic. She wanted vigorously to cast the spell again but there were too many factors holding her back. She did not trust herself without the guidance of Solas, she did not want to expose herself in front of the devout Seeker, and most importantly, she was beyond exhausted. Solas said as much.

She unrolled her bedroll, making sure to align it perfectly with Cassandra’s in order to satiate her desire for order, and began to shed off her armor. Thankfully, Cassandra was absent from the tent as she stripped. Faen did not consider herself a prude but she was...shy. She had lived in close quarters with A’len nearly her whole life but the woman was  _ blind  _ and saw nothing. She had no reason to hide herself then. Other people, no matter the capacity, had no reason to see her unclothed. She placed her armor neatly in the corner and changed into a nightshirt. 

Finally, she was able to squeeze into her bedroll, her hand patting the spot above her tummy firmly in order to call Gitta over. 

Gitta. Her trusty and beloved cat. She could not recall a time when Gitta was not in her life. A’len said the cat came with her. While Gitta did as most cats and did as she pleased, Gitta was always near. When Keeper Deshanna sent her out to spy on the humans, Gitta was her companion in every venture. Cold nights were a touch warmer with Gitta curled up at her side. 

In truth, Faen had not really noticed her absence since the Conclave. There were too many parts moving at a speed she was barely keeping up since the explosion. Never was there a moment when her thoughts were unoccupied, her body dormant and resting. Somewhere deep down, Faen had not worried about the cat because cats, by their very nature, were so independent and often absent. Gitta was not present at the Conclave when the explosion occurred, she was left behind in a little inn near Haven called River’s End, and had likely been run off when the chaos ensued. 

But now she was back and Faen felt the hole Gitta had left that she was previously unaware of fill in. 

The cat crawled up on her torso and began to knead vigorously. Her small frame trembled with her purrs. A smile fell upon Faen’s lips as she stroked her soft fur. She tugged at a few matted clumps of fur, which Gitta ignored, and once again examined her. Gitta had always been small, like Faen, but their time apart had shrunk her even more. Faen would quickly see to that.

Just then, Cassandra entered the dimly lit tent with a heavy sigh. For a moment, it was as if she was wholly unaware of Faen’s presence. She went about shucking off her armor and preparing for bed as if she were the sole occupant of the tent. But that air dissipated when she blew out the flame in the lanturn that sat between their bedrolls and crawled into her bedroll.

“You handled Mother Giselle well…” she said, the sound of her voice at the end indicating she had more to say. Faen suspect she could not find the proper words that would not sound offensive. Luckily for Cassandra, Faen had them.

“For an elf?” she finished.

Cassandra huffed indignantly. “No,” she spat, “That is  _ not  _ what I meant.”

“Do elaborate then.”

“I meant...you practice an understanding of the Chantry and Chantry I have not seen…”

“In an elf?” 

Cassandra huffed again but before she could speak, Faen interjected. “I practice an understanding you’re not accustomed to seeing in an elf? I forget, we’re all such horribly ignorant and mean people. We can’t possibly fathom other cultures and beliefs. This world we live in is so foreign to us, despite occupying it, but we live in  _ such  _ cold hard isolation from everyone else that we  _ must  _ only know about our own lives. How could an elf, especially a Dalish elf, know  _ anything,  _ hm?” As Faen spoke, there was no malice or resentment in her voice. Her voice was simply flat and emotionless. 

“That is not what I meant.”

Faen remained silent for a moment, considering that that was, in fact, not what the Seeker meant. That consideration only lasted for a moment, no longer than the inhale and exhale of a breath. “Yes it was.” she said. She ran her hand through Gitta’s fur once more. “Go to bed, Cassandra.”

And there was no more talk of it.

-+-

Humans, by their very nature, were not only compelled to say stupid things, but they operated under the assumption that everyone  _ wanted  _ to hear what stupid things they had to say. This was not a mere generalization — it was a staunch fact. Of all her run-ins with humans, which was quite extensive, she had difficulty recalling one where the human  _ didn’t  _ gush utter shit at one point or another. 

_ “It’s their pride that says all that nonsense, not their heads.”  _ A’len had once told her,  _ “They’re so full of the stuff that they’re near to bursting. What they lack for in brains they make up for in pride.” _

Faen saw how that was applicable to some. But not all. Humans, whether they were aware of it or not, were prideful creatures. As were the Dalish, the dwarves, and Qunari but pride and its sources differed greatly amongst the races. Qunari were proud because they believed to have mastered the self and thus the world. Dwarves were proud because their ancestors accomplished greatness. Humans were proud to have conquered. Elves were proud to have lived. 

It was this bit of wisdom that A’len had passed down that made her see that Cassandra was proud and she didn’t even know it. While she had never explicitly stated her shock that an elf could be respectful and knowledgeable, her words implied as much. And those implications were fueled by this mammoth pride that blanketed all humans. 

Faen was caught between faulting her and understanding her perception. She mulled it over by the morning fire, her eyes caught on the eggs frying away in the skillet. 

Cassandra’s opinion of the elves was not an uncommon one. Many humans she came across were amazed that she spoke the common tongue — one look at her face and it was obvious where she came from. She found that most of what surprised humans was borne from an apparent lack of interaction with the Dalish and elves in general. Could she blame the Seeker for her lack of exposure to elves? Was it entirely her own fault that she had no idea that elves were not the heathens she had spent her entire life being lectured about? 

“I say we head back to Haven,” Cassandra said, pulling Faen from her thoughts, “The rest will want to know what’s happened here.”

“That is certainly important but the Inquisition has made an effort to help the refugees here. Would you have us abandon them?” Solas inquired.

“A small force of Inquisition soldiers will remain stationed here in the Hinterlands. They will keep whatever peace they can.” Cassandra said.

“ _ If  _ they can,” Varric added, “Look, the situation here is less than ideal and people need our help. Our soldiers are stretched thin enough as it is. I don’t think this meeting with the Chantry is so pressing that we can’t help out here for a few days.”

Cassandra scowled. “And what do you have to say about this?” she asked, turning to Faen.

Faen tore off a small piece of her bacon and fed it to Gitta. “I agree with Varric and Solas. The Chantry can wait — no one will piece together the fractured remnants of it while we’re not looking. These people cannot wait.” she finally said.

Cassandra huffed but conceded. “As you say…” she mumbled.

They prepared for the field. Breakfast was concluded and potions were replenished. Faen took to securing the last of the buckles across her thighs before they set out. 

The Crossroads at Redcliffe, though secured from the rebel mages and rogue templars, was still a mess. Buildings doned signs of war, groups of people were displaced and sat huddled on the side of the road, the sick and wounded moaned at odd intervals, people of all sorts rushed around trying to make themselves useful. It was the chaos of the current world. But, through it all, Faen could see glimmers of order returning. 

She flocked to the first person who waved her down. Moved on to the next when she had gleaned all she could from that person. It was all as she expected: fetch this potion, gather us meat, find blankets. 

They spent the entire day hunting. Unsurprisingly, both Cassandra and Varric struggled with the task. Naturally, they were both skilled in the ways of killing but that wasn’t the problem. They both lacked the...sense. Cassandra was deceptively light-footed but hadn’t the faintest idea how to track. Varric was more well versed in tracking but his movements were too clunky and heavy to ever even dream of coming close to prey. Solas kept pace but Faen decided to venture off on her own.

“I’m coming with you.”

Faen turned to see Solas standing behind her, his features set with determination. Her eyes darted to where Varric and Cassandra sat. Leaving the two without a mage was something she did not deem wise. But then again, she was venturing off without a mage. No...she carried those abilities with her. To a very limited extent. She decided they would be fine.

The two set off on the hunt.

It started off fruitful enough. A ram would be taken down and dragged back to the place that acted as base of sorts. But by the time the prospects lowered, they only had three rams. It was not enough to feed the refugees, not even if they heavily rationed out the meat. She searched everywhere for signs of rams, her eyes glued to the ground in an effort to spot their tracks. She spotted only a handful of tracks and of them, about three of them were from the three rams they already had. Faen huffed and sat herself on a stump.

Shockingly, it was Solas who found a path towards salvation. When she was not at the helm, Solas was surprisingly proficient at tracking. 

“You surprise me,” she said, following his lead.

Solas knelt down to examine a particular imprint in the dirty, his long fingers tracing over it. “I’m a surprising man. In what way do I surprise you, Faeneth?” he asked. 

“You’re quite adept at tracking. We’ve been following this particular ram for longer than I could have led us.” she said.

“And I, an apostate mage, do not need to eat?” he asked. He stood and turned to her. There was a smirk on his lips.

She flushed. “Well…” she began.

“I travel alone. It does not serve me well to know nothing about hunting, else I would quickly starve.” he continued.

That made sense. She scolded herself for not considering that point. “Amongst the Dalish, everyone learns to hunt. To an extent. Clearly, I was not the sole provider…” she said.

Solas’s expression warped. It went from teasingly pleasant to one of intense disgust. “Ah. The  _ Dalish.”  _ he sneered.

Faen frowned. This was not the first sign of his feelings for the Dalish. When they had first met, Solas made a similar comment carrying a similar tone. “Your distaste for my people is palpable. Despite your posturing, they are your people too.” she said. 

His expression, if it were possible, seemed to sour even more. “In that you are wrong. I am nothing like them. They are children, acting out stories misheard and repeated wrongly a thousand times.” he spat.

Anger blossomed inside her. They spared her no love but she was fiercely protective of them and their way of life. She understood their caution in handling her, could see through the lens in which they viewed her. The Dalish were by no means perfect. But they were her people and they were doing what they could. To hear another of her kind speak so low of them, his own people no less, not only angered her but hurt her deeply. “And what are you? In possession of the truth?” she asked.

“While they pass on stories, mangling the details, I walk the Fade. I have seen things they have not. Things they have so willingly and stubbornly ignored. They pretend to know everything and yet they know nothing.”

Her fists clenched at her side, her jaw following suit. She became keenly aware that he was not only speaking of her people this way but  _ her  _ as well. 

“There are many things I do not know, none of which I claim to know. If you hold me in such low regard, if I am but a foolish  _ child playing games,  _ I’m not sure why you decided to teach me magic. Clearly, I’m not to be bothered with.” she said, rather calmly. She liked Solas. His voice was soothing, as was his presence. Their conversations, while not numerous, had always been interesting and engaging. She could get lost in his knowledge and find a whole new world in his tales. It was...something akin to heartbreak to hear this from him.

His jaw clenched as well, though his fists did not ball up. He flexed his fingers and closed his eyes for a time. “You are...not a child. You stand on your own. You are worthy of many things, Faeneth. Forgive me. I did not mean to imply…” he said, trailing off. He was restraining something.

She calmed somewhat as well. “We are  _ trying, hahren _ .” she said, almost pleading with him. Her voice wavered slightly. “We were left  _ nothing  _ and yet we’ve found  _ something  _ when there was no one to guide us.  _ Ir abelas. _ ”

Solas sighed heavily. “You have nothing to apologize for,  _ da’len.  _ It is me who need apologize. You are right, of course. The fault is mine, for expecting what the Dalish could never truly accomplish.  _ Ir abelas.  _ For all their fumbling, the Dalish have taught you well.” he said.

His apology was sincere enough, as far as Faen could glean. His words still troubled her but the immediate issue had been resolved. They walked in silence, Solas still leading the effort to hunt down this particular ram.

They walked for a bit, Faen taking special notice of all distinguishable features they came across for when they ventured back. Finally, they fell upon the ram. They both knelt in the brush not too far from it. Solas was quiet as he examined the field. 

“This strikes me as the perfect opportunity for you to practice what you learned last night.” he finally whispered.

Faen’s eyes went wide, her heart picked up pace. Fear and excitement coursed through her veins in equal measure. She had been longing to practice conjuring fire since she had first extinguished the fire, but she knew her limits. And knew that Cassandra, Varric, and the other Inquisition officers would not take too kindly to her newfound ability. But she was afraid. She had only extended the effort intentionally once. Faen had conjured something powerful and Solas had even warned her that fire magic was the most difficult of all elements to control. 

“What if I lose control?” she whispered.

“You will not. And if you do, you have me here to counter it and leash it once more.” he said.

She turned to him. “You have faith in me?” she asked.

He returned her gaze, his eyes burning into hers with that trademark intensity. “More faith than you have in yourself.” Solas said, “From a magical standpoint, no, even a  _ rational  _ standpoint, your ability to so perfectly mask your abilities was miraculous. I might even say it should have been impossible, especially considering you had no guidance from a mage to do so. You exercised an extreme level of will and control — one that I’ve seen mages of higher skill struggle to attain.”

Faen could decide if his words were truth or flattery. Or something in between. But she appreciated them nonetheless. She inhaled deeply, the leather of her armor straining against her chest. “How will I kill it?” she asked.

“The force of your magic, if appropriately placed, should offer a quick and painless death. The fire would simply provide additional damage.” 

She closed her eyes and readied herself. She burrowed deep within herself, though not as deep as when she first attempted the spell, to find the energy to cast. Her magic was shy at first, recoiling from her efforts. But with some coaxing, it spread throughout her. It prickled at her skin, pooled in her chest. Now she needed to focus it. She recalled what Solas had said last night about reciting the formulation and visualizing the fire ball. Before she knew it, a hot ball of fire was growing in her hands. She hesitated.

“Powerful mages do not question if they can control the powers they call. Magic is torn directly from the Fade and as such, it warps to fit your will. Powerful mages see themselves controlling that power and  _ do it.” _ Solas whispered in her ear.

With a firm exhale, she hauled the fireball at the ram with all her strength. Within a matter of seconds, the ball collided with the creature’s chest and exploded into flames. The ram hit the ground instantly. 

Faen was frozen still, adrenaline rushing through her with such force she practically vibrated in place. She granted herself a brief moment to marvel over such an accomplishment, although she could scarcely believe it. She felt for the blades at her back, checking to make sure her eyes had not fooled her and the creature did not fall due to an aptly placed throw of her blade. They were still sheathed. She looked to Solas for confirmation that she had, in fact, landed the killing blow.

Upon his lips was a faint smile. “Well done,  _ da’len. _ ” he said.

They both stood from their spot in the bushes and stalked over to the ram. It laid still, no signs of distress present in its body. It was simply dead. There were some scorch marks across its chest and neck but nothing so substantial as to burn the flesh. Somehow, she had altered the spell to focus mainly on the force of the impact, not the strength of the flame. It was not a feat she could remember how to replicate. It was...natural. 

“A fine kill,” Solas commended her.

“Yes,” she agreed as if in a fog, “But I don’t know how. I didn’t…”

“While a great deal of magic must be taught, a great deal is intrinsic to being a mage. A newborn need not be taught how to breathe to do it. There are things you already know that I could not teach you. It is simply a matter of development.” he said.

That made sense. There were a great many things she could not remember ever being taught how to execute. And yet she did them, some with eerie precision. 

Solas threw the ram over his shoulders, taking care to avoid the large, curved horns. Faen offered to help but he proved quite capable. She wasn’t sure what help she could be when the man carried that thing as if it were a sack full of apples. They walked back to where they had deposited the other rams, Faen still navigating the world as if through a fog. When they reached the stump where the pile resided, Solas carefully placed the ram and stood back to examine their work.

“Does this suit you? Or are you up for more?” he asked.

She swayed a bit, allowing for the faint breeze to carry her more than it should have. Her strength was wanning. “No, this’ll do for today.” she admitted. The hunter had estimated ten rams would serve the refugees at the crossroads. Four was a far cry from ten but it was certainly better than nothing. She vowed to return to the hunt tomorrow. If she could stand it.

Cassandra examined their bounty. “This seems suitable enough. You expect to hunt further?” she asked.

“This is by no means enough to feed them all. The crossroads is quite populated. It’s become a haven for the weary and more flock to it everyday.” Faen said.

She did not expect Cassandra to know much about feeding a great deal of people. Under the hefty thickness of her armor, behind her sharp blade and strong shield, Faen sensed an air of privilege in her. Whether that be in her upbringing or current life she could not tell. But it was present. She had no doubt that Cassandra’s life held hardness and obstacles but privilege ran deep. 

They all dragged a ram back to camp, which was thankfully not as far as to make the task especially dreadful. Once at camp, Faen got to work. She began by stripping the ram of its skin, making sure to skim the fat and bits of pesky flesh off with her skinning knife. The more proficient hunters in the clan taught her the importance of having a knife dedicated to the particular act of skinning. Perhaps someone more skilled and possessing further knowledge would take to tanning the hides. With that done, she disemboweled the creature, taking special care of the organs. Every part of the ram should be utilized, especially in such times as these. Food scarcities were not the time to be a slave to a refined palette. As she began to strip the ribs of their meat, she became keenly aware of Varric looking on in horror.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned.

She did not look up from the rack of ribs before her. “It’s not as refined a process as actually killing,” she said. Her blade caught on a particularly tough strain of connective tissue. It was nothing a harsh shove of her arm couldn’t fix. “But it is a process that you benefit from. No matter how grotesque it is.”

“I know, but you couldn’t be more...graceful? You’re making a  _ mess,  _ kid.” he said. 

“Few things in life are graceful.” Solas said, strolling over to the fire they sat round, “If it is grace you seek, eat greens from the earth. Less of a mess.”

He sat down beside her and from deep within the depths of his furs, produced a knife similar to hers. Solas took another ram and began skinning it.

“Of course, it’s Chuckles with the great ideas,” Varric joked. 

“I am full of them. You just refuse to listen to the majority.” Solas quipped.

“Oh, I listen. You just think I don’t.” Varric said, leaning back. His opened shirt split across his broad chest, revealing more hair as it moved. “Dwarves very rarely  _ don’t  _ listen. But we’re great at pretending we don’t hear a word you’re saying.”

“Pardon me. You refuse to  _ heed  _ my suggestions.” Solas corrected himself acrimoniously. 

“That’s better!” Varric chuckled.

Faen sighed. “Does this general assumption apply to all dwarves or just those on the surface, Varric?” she asked, slightly miffed with their conversation. It intruded upon her own thoughts due to its close proximity. “You were born on the surface.”

“I’d like to think that  _ all  _ dwarves are the same, surface or no. But I’m not that big of an idiot, though even that’s questionable.” Varric said. He sighed and turned his focus to his crossbow — a weapon her lovingly named Bianca. The respect with which he held his crossbow mimicked the respect she’d seen in those who called her the Herald, though his piety to the weapon lacked all religious undertones. It was this very respect that lead Faen to theorize that Bianca was a lover or something as special as one. She always meant to press him on it but she hadn’t the time. Her desire to know burned greater with each passing day. “Surface dwarves are much more, hm...what’s the word? Lax? The dwarves of Orzammar are so far up their own asses it’s a miracle they can shit without tasting it.”

Solas finished skinning his ram and threw the hide over with Faen’s. He made much faster work of it than she did and she marveled over his skill. He had humbly shrugged off her praise of that skill, suggesting that it was borne of simple necessity. But he was more than proficient at all things regarding the hunt.

“You’re like a wolf.” Faen mused. She did not mean to say it aloud.

Solas froze, his blade stilling halfway through the flank of the ram. “Pardon?” he asked.

“Don’t mind me, just talking to no one who cares.” Varric said, feigning hurt. He was ignored.

“You hunt like them. You move silently and with meaning. Every move is calculated. You are remarkably efficient like them. Not a bit of meat is wasted.” she said.

Solas shifted slightly. His moves were heavy and tinged with discomfort. 

“Wolves are quite capable hunters. I am middling at best. I do not see the similarities.” he said.

“Aren’t wolves important to elves?” Varric asked.

Faen shrugged. “You speak of Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf. Important is a strong word that indicates veneration or respect. I would say he’s more...integral to elves than important.” she said.

Solas stiffened considerably. 

“I remember Daisy telling us about him once. I don’t remember much beyond the name.” Varric said.

She recognized the name ‘Daisy’ as the moniker for the Dalish elf he traveled with in Kirkwall. Merrill? Yes, she was quite sure that was it.

“The Dread Wolf is the Great Betrayer of the people and the gods. It is said he tricked the pantheon into their prison and sealed them away forever. Many of the elves attribute the fall of Arlathan to him and his deceit.” Solas chimed in rather quickly.

“His iconography is common amongst the Dalish. My clan would station his statues facing away from camp, reminding all to be wary of him. He is said to stalk the Fade to this day, tempting those he comes across to madness and such.” Faen added. Solas snorted. “I’ve seen shrines dedicated to him, though. The offerings are always surprisingly abundant.”

“Interesting…” Varric mused, stroking his chin, “So he’s like the Maferath of the elves?”

Faen frowned, as did Solas. Neither appreciated the comparison very much. 

“Maferath was the beginning of the story.” Faen said.

“Fen’Harel was the end.” Solas finished grimly.

Faen nodded. 

Varric left the pair of them to their business, the lack of conversation allowing for her full focus to be on skinning the rams and harvesting their meat. Her thoughts were now granted the permission to run wild. Her mind still reeled from her kill with magic. It was invigorating and intriguing, bold and captivating. Yet...it terrified her to no end. She’d spent years of her life being told her magic was dangerous, put her life in danger. To give in to the urge to let it flow was to effectively run herself through with a blade. And of course, like with everything new and dangerous, there was the slight cast of fear over it. Her control, while strong enough, was not refined to a level she was comfortable with. From the two times she’d intentionally cast a spell, she felt as if control just barely remained in her clutches. Not to mention she felt as if she were violating some rule, a rule imposed by the stern A’len, and being caught would cost her her backside. But she was not a girl any longer. She needn’t worry about the lashing of a lifetime anymore for much of anything. She was free to do as she pleased...relatively speaking. There were times she felt restricted by the rule of the clan. While they had no true and official governing body, she felt as if her every move was dictated by strict social rules. There were many things she could not due not out of fear of punishment but out of fear of further isolation. She gave in periodically, allowing herself to do this or that which was frowned upon, and was appropriately distanced from the clan. But this confinement worsened when she was sent beyond the forests and into the cities. Among their stone walls and cobblestone streets were solid regulations and definite governments who were not too kind to those with pointed ears. 

In these cities, she became aware of everything she did. She was always aware that she did not belong and was under heavy scrutiny when out of the shadows. The whispers seemed to amplify and echo in her ears as she passed. The stares seemed to core right through her. Over time, while still intense and heavy, she took great pride in their whispers and stares. 

_ They see an elf like me among them and they shift in discomfort. They see a heathen like me among their civility and sweat dampens every inch of their being. _

Even granting herself pride at their gawking did not take away the subtle underlying fear that she was doing something wrong and would be detained, or worse, killed for it. 

This acute awareness of her every move seeped into her life with the Inquisition. Her importance to the Inquisition was undeniable but that did not translate to freedom. The order was still spearheaded by humans and founded by the two people closest to the most powerful figure in the Chantry. Elves populated the Inquisition quite abundantly but Faen took notice of their rank. True, there was no official hierarchy in the Inquisition. As far as Faen was aware, they had no leader. Regardless, elves comprised the servant class and ran errands for the people more important. All this was to say she stood out considerably. Like the humans in the cities, the humans among the Inquisition were as equally intimidated and appalled, if not more. 

Magic gave her freedom and it was a freedom she could only practice in the company of Solas. Was it really freedom if the circumstances were so specific? She did not know. All she knew was that she hungered for a taste of it again. 

-+-

The sun had set well below the horizon by the time her and Solas finished their work. One of the rams proved especially laden with fat and required two hands to properly carve the beast up. When all was finished, the bones saved to make stock and the meat and organs chilled with the aid of magic, they took turns cleaning themselves up. Faen went first, the moonlight and a meager torch guiding her way through the night to the edge of the riverbed. Gitta followed closely at her heels. 

She tore off her boots, the ache in the balls of her heels too much to bare for much longer. The socks followed and finally, she was able to her aching feet into the river. She sighed, her head falling back. After a time, she began to cast off her clothes. Today she had opted out of her good armor crafted by the blacksmith in Haven and instead went for something cheap she’d purchased at the crossroads. It was nowhere near as fine as the armor Harritt had made but she preferred to save that armor for  _ real  _ action. So she wore the simply made armor from the crossroads and was glad for it. Carving up rams was incredibly dirty, smelly work. Before she submerged herself in the chilly depths of the river, she dunked the leather articles into the water and took her time scrubbing them clean of blood and gore. When the task was completed, she tossed them onto the bank and allowed herself to sink into the shallow water. 

Another sigh escaped her as frigid water assaulted her senses. She would have cried out if it had not felt so good. She’d spent the better part of the day hunched over a ram carcass, using her strength to cut it into pieces. It was safe to say her entire being ached. She floated contently for a short while, her being synthesizing with the flow of water. But she did not let herself get carried away. Before she waded into the river, she tied a rope around a particularly large rock and held onto it. It was a calming feeling to have water rush past you while you stayed relatively still. 

On the shore, Gitta meowed softly. A soft smile nestled into her lips. But the expression soon soured. Her thoughts were brought back to the matter of granting Cassandra her forgiveness. Faen wondered if the Seeker even  _ wanted  _ her forgiveness, even considered that it was something to have. Thus far, Cassandra had made no apologies over her treatment of Faen and that irked her. But this...last night was different. Despite being able to somewhat understand her perspective, Cassandra had been completely out of line. Of course, Cassandra had never explicitly said  _ anything  _ but that did not matter. What mattered was what she meant. 

Faen sighed once more, this one lacking the relief the others had. She and Cassandra had not had the time to converse privately since that moment. Surprisingly, she was not dreading the interaction that was bound to happen. In fact, she desired to be the start of it. Faen wasn’t necessarily confrontational, she much preferred to resolve issues without a show and with a level-head, but how rare an occasion was it when that was actually so. 

She was most curious to see what Cassandra said, if she said anything at all. Humans liked to talk their way out of uncomfortable situations, ones that were most often of their own making. How would Cassandra evade her? Would she care? Would she easily submit? Faen did not get the impression that Cassandra was one to do anything easily. 

The water of the river was no longer a relief at all. Its chill was biting and made her limbs her fingers and toes go numb. She stood, dunked herself beneath the surface once more, and sloshed back onto the bank. She wrung her dark hair, the water weighing it down even more so than usual, and toweled off. But even then, the towel wrapped firmly around her shoulders, she was freezing. Her small frame was wracked by tremors. She longed to be back in camp, sitting by the warm fire and sipping on hot soup. 

But she did not need the fire at camp. She had fire of her own.

She prodded her mana, beckoning it forth from its seclusion, and quantified it. While she was certain she could not sustain the spell for any longer period of time, there was just enough mana to conjure a ribbon of flame. That was all she needed.

She closed her eyes and honed her thoughts, focusing them to a razor sharp point and then allowing that focus to summon the formula for the spell. She simultaneously heard and felt the flame flicker to life, its warmth setting her senses aglow with excitement to be greeted with something other than the bitter cold. Her eyelids peeled back to reveal its light and the sight of Gitta watching her intently. 

With careful effort, she began to swirl the flame around her body, hovering over areas particularly cold. She lingered over her fingers and arms, the numbness in them quite profound and annoying. Every inch of her body was graced by the flame. 

Pride quickly consumed her. In a moment of thoughtlessness, she brought the flame too close to her torso and burned herself. She cried out in shock, both at the pain and the fact that she had been so careless. This shock caused her control to wane. The fire quickly grew in size. What was once no thicker and no longer than a hair ribbon was now the size of a ladder. She panicked but retained enough control to not allow it to spread. She could move it, she thanked Mythal for that, but it was growing fussy and lashing out against her control.

Faen wrestled the flame, throwing it all over, hoping the strength with which she fought it would extinguish it or at least dampen it to the point where was not so scared of its size, but it bit back with as much effort as she gave. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gitta lurch back, her hackles raised. Even the cat, typically so oblivious and unbothered by anything she did, was aware of the danger.

It was the feeling of the cold water around her ankles that forced the idea into her head. The fire had pressed her back into the water and she realized what a powerful tool the river was.

With all the strength she had left, she hurled the massive cord of flame into the river. It hissed and steamed on contact. But it was out. Faen was panting as if she’d run miles and miles and her limbs were trembling with a mixture of adrenaline and hopeless fear. She swallowed, her saliva thick from dehydration. It was then that the burn on her ribcage screamed in agony. While there was enough moonlight to see relatively well and she had a torch, the light provided by the moon was too dim and she was too far from the torch to accurately gauge the size of the burn. It gnawed at her nerves with the ferocity of a wolf gnawing on a bone. 

Stepping into the light of the torch revealed the extent of the burn. She gasped. It was roughly the size of a small fist, the skin within the borders of the burn shiny and pink. It was not the worst burn ever, not by any means, but it was fairly substantial. She winced as she tugged at the skin around it, the burn agitating at the slightest touch. This was no good. No good at all.

She was at the behest of pain — every move was marred by it. She moved slowly and with heavy calculation as to not distress the burn even further. She pulled on her trousers and dreaded the thought of pulling her shirt overhead, allowing the material of her shirt to come into direct contact with the singed skin. But she did it and nearly cried out when it happened. Gitta brushed up against her legs, her head butting up softly against her calf. Despite the pain, she smiled down at the cat and was thankful for her encouragement. 

Somehow, she managed to make it back to camp. She stumbled into the perimeter of the light from the campfire and ignored the group’s acknowledgment of her arrival. Her intended destination was her tent. It was there she thought she would find reprieve from the pain.

She threw her wet armor in the corner of the tent and collapsed into her bedroll. By now, she had grown somewhat used to the pain but was no less a slave to it. She moved with careful consideration and positioned herself according to how the burn demanded it. 

It wasn’t but a handful of minutes before Cassandra waltzed in, the air around her betraying her silence. It held the indication of words unspoken that desperately needed to be spoken. Faen really didn’t care. 

“I wanted to talk about last night,” Cassandra finally said.

Faen did a suitable job of muffling her wince. “It’s fine, Cassandra.” she whispered, “Please, I’m tired. Just go to sleep.”

Thankfully, Cassandra relented and did not press. Faen found sleep quickly.

-+-

The roar of the war fought below was almost deafening. Solas did not need to peer over the edge of the cliff to know what was happening. Templars were slashing wildly at anything that moved, their swords piercing barriers to inflict fatal wounds upon mages clad in simple robes. Mages were casting spells, the vast majority of which were hastily cast and sloppy, but that mattered little for what was a mage to care for decorum when the spell did its job? War was all the same. Those who did no wield magic or were not confident enough in their abilities to wield magic took up swords and various other weapons. Those who wielded magic cast their spells and swirled their staves. Blood would always be spilled. Families would always be torn apart. The only difference was in who fought it.

A flash of a memory spread across his thoughts. A shared look between him, the mighty Dread Wolf driven by the goal to see his people freed, and a slave who had the courage and will to fight for that freedom. It was in the midst of battle and Solas remembered with striking clarity the way in which the man’s hands had trembled, the sword in them wavering in his grip. In his eyes was fear but there was something else. Pride. This man took pride in fighting for his freedom, fighting by the Dread Wolf’s side, and having the final say in his fate. The moment was brief and small but Solas would never forget it.

Down below, the mages fought in much the same way. However, it seemed to him that the rebels below had lost their heads and this was no longer about freedom but power. Power corrupted all, this he knew. He knew it with such conviction that he could hardly stand it. Foolishly, he had hoped that this world would be free from that truth. But it prevailed and always would. And he would always stand vigilant against those who let the power consume them.

He looked to Faen, her back turned to him and body hunched to watch the carnage below. She held more power than she knew, in more ways than one. By the end of this, he suspected she would have more. Solas knew what was to come and he prepared himself for it. If she grew too reckless, became too consumed by this power, he would deal with it. That much was always certain. Until then, he would try to guide her as best he could, steer her away from the temptation to give in to all that power promised. He wondered how difficult she would make things.

Some part of him was curious to see what a Dalish in power would look like, what would her upbringing change about how she handled things. Another part, much smaller yet much more concentrated, loathed her. A Dalish would make a mockery of what the elvhen were. She would do her people no justice. In his youth, he was never one to deny anyone a chance. Age showed him the fault in that stance. He was much more sparing with whom he gave a chance to. 

Solas was unsure on what he should give her. He hardly knew her, afterall. But...she had promised him safety. She had given her word that he would not come to harm from the Chantry or the Inquisition. Despite his lack of knowledge on her, he knew she meant it. He was in no position to fend off the entirety of an organization, that much was clear. Solas discovered her words meant a great deal to him. He would not forget that. 

“ _ That  _ is what we face,” Cassandra said, pointing to the fighting below, “The Chantry has denounced us. If we were to waltz down there, we would be greeted much the same.”

Faen remained silent. 

“I recommend we leave for Val Royeaux, leave behind this madness, and come back when we have mended relations with the Chantry and can approach either side without being hacked apart.” Cassandra insisted.

He did not need the aid of blood magic to know what was holding Faen back. She was wary of the Chantry. Clearly, she’d had run-ins with the humans and knew them better than any Dalish did. But even this knowledge did not do away with her distaste for the Chantry. He commended her for the effort to hold back.

Faen turned her back to the fighting, her eyes glazed over with pain. She held her side. In the days since they had first hunted the rams, she’d been held back by something. This was the first time Solas caught a glimpse of it. She was clearly in pain though why was a mystery. He made a note to speak to her later about it. He would not question or embarrass her in front of everyone. 

“Fine,” she spat, “Pack up camp and prepare the horses. We ride to Haven at once.”

This pleased Cassandra. 

“Fantastic. Now you can leave the girl alone, Cassandra.” Varric said. 

Cassandra frowned and opened her mouth to say something but Solas left to follow Faen before she could say it.

The Herald took up a slow pace, her side clearly bothering her. When they were far enough away from Varric and Cassandra, he lightly rested his hand upon her shoulder. She hissed.

“Are you alright, Faeneth?” he asked, concern in his voice.

He could see the beads of sweat on her brow, the unhealthy pallor to her skin. She was already pale enough, the dark marks of Dirthamen a stark contrast to her skin, but she was even paler now than before. She turned slightly, her movements weighted down by pain.

“I’m fine,” she said, voice frail. She tried to walk off but he stopped her.

“You think me simple?” he asked, voice stern, “I have eyes,  _ da’len.  _ I can see you are in pain and I would remedy that, if you’ll allow me.”

Her eyes, dark and full of many secrets, flashed over to where Varric and Cassandra bickered. She worried her full bottom lip a bit before her eyes wandered back over to him. She tugged on his sleeve, pulling him in the direction of the trees. When they were far enough in, she stopped.

“I burned myself,” she whispered, head bowed. 

He inhaled deeply. Before he could scold her from practicing her magic without him present, he saw the fault in that. Not only did she not need a lecture, for it appeared she already knew she was wrong, he found it natural that she would test her limits on her own. She was not a child. She was remarkably young but she was not some infant to be watched at all hours. She was a woman who was more than capable of controlling her magic without his help. There were countless times where Solas had played with magic he did not fully understand all on his own. 

“Let me see it.” he said.

She looked up at him with sad eyes. He realized how much taller he was than her. For a moment, she toyed with the hem of her shirt, her fingers nervously twirling it like a strand of hair. Then she wisened up and lifted the shirt to just below her breast to reveal a large burn. Solas gasped.

The burn was situated just below her left breast, on her ribcage, and the surrounding area was an angry pink color. It looked like a welt. The interior of the burn was shiny and sticky, beginning to go slightly green.

“ _ Da’len! _ ” he exclaimed. He started to trace his fingers over the skin but he stopped himself. The burn was infected and touching it with dirty hands was certainly not wise. 

She quickly dropped her shirt and stared at him defiantly. 

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he asked.

“I did not want them to know I was playing with fire,” she stated crisply.

He frowned. “You need immediate care. Their assumptions be damned.” he said.

She frowned as well. “Can you not heal it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I could mend the flesh, weave a new layer as best I could. But I am not a healer. I cannot remove infection.” he said.

Faen glared at the ground at her feet. She was clearly upset with herself and to a degree, Solas was too. Did she not know how infection worked? No doubt she had not been taking care of it. The least she could’ve done was cover it. Days had past, her sweat and natural oils seeping into the wound. No wonder it went bad. 

“You will allow me to tend to it. There is no argument.” Solas finally said.

Faen chewed the inside of her cheek for a time. Then she looked up at him. Her eyes were incredibly dark, swirling with emotions he could not place. But there was one thing he saw in them that he was certain of — she was thankful for his help.

“Alright.” she whispered. 


	3. Elves in the City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot longer than expected for numerous reasons. For one, I had no idea where I was going with this chapter. I know where I'm going for the most part but the specifics were kinda hard to grasp. For another, I've decided to not work myself so hard. I was writing about three pages everyday but that just wasn't working out with my class schedule at all. So I've decided I'll stay away from writing on Monday's and Wednesday's and write all the other days until I'm satisfied. I should take the time now to inform everyone that I plan on breaking every five chapters to work on smaller WIPs that aren't this one. I'll work on anywhere from one to two WIPs before jumping back into this story just so I can scratch my other itches.  
As always do enjoy and thank you soooo much to andrasste for editing this chapter for me and for looking it over! I would link her but I have no idea how (:

Faen recoiled from his touch, her body curling in on itself and furthering her pain and discomfort. Solas could not place her reasoning. Were his fingers too cold? Did the wound pain her that much? Did she simply not like being touched? Whatever her reasons, he apologized.

“ _ Ir abelas, _ ” he said softly. Her eyes burned into him. 

“What is it?” she asked, referring to the mixture at the tips of his fingers.

“A mixture of elfroot, spindleweed, and honey,” he said.

Varric loved to complain about the time she spent meticulously gathering herbs. She spent hours hunched over, waddling around on her knees in search of elfroot and spindleweed and embrium. At times, even Solas grew weary of it, much preferring to attend to business rather than stop every few steps to kneel and inspect some growth. As much as it was a bother, there was great value in her work. It was her persistence in the task that granted him quite a hefty supply of herbs of all sorts, healing or otherwise. Clearly, she possessed a considerable knowledge on the appearance of herbs, as did he, for she steered clear of the poisonous plants and went right for those that proved beneficial. He knew a decent portion of the alchemical arts — it was wise for  _ anyone,  _ not just a solitary mage, to learn how to brew potions of healing — but he was no true alchemist. He never truly had the knack for it. 

Solas had dragged Faen back to camp, shrugging off Cassandra and Varric’s eagerness to pack up camp so quickly by insisting that Faen had twisted her ankle. It provided them with the privacy they needed. Once there, he went through their stocks. Faen would hand over her bag of herbs when they’d return to camp and give instructions on how to separate them and store them. One of the Inquisition soldiers who stood watch for the camp had tucked the herbs away in a large pack and did her best to keep them separated and organized. He found what he needed quickly enough but it took some time to assess what exactly that need was. Elfroot would help with the pain and inflammation but wouldn’t do as much to remove infection as he would like. Spindleweed would provide a backbone of sorts and tend to the infection more so than the elfroot. He didn’t consider honey as an additive until he had begun to grind the leaves of elfroot and spindleweed together. The honey was a right bastard to come by. It was completely absent from the camp and when he ventured down to the Crossroads, he had to launch a whole hunt to come across a small bit of honey. But he managed. 

Faen opened her mouth to say something but promptly shut it. She stared at his fingertips a moment more before she nodded. Solas smeared the mixture as gently as he could against her flesh, his movements slow and calculated. Even with his caution, she still hissed in pain. He could not gauge the progression of the infection — he only knew the burn was infected. From her reaction, it was thoroughly infected. 

He sighed. “Why didn’t you tell anyone? You could have prevented it from getting to such a painful point,” he said absently.

Her features hardened and she looked away. “I was embarrassed.” she said, “I got too caught up in the heat, my mind slipped, and I drew it too close. Then…”

Solas inclined a brow. “Then?” he said.

She sighed. Solas retrieved a gauze from his pack and began to bandage the wound. Once again, she hissed in pain but this one lacked the venom the first one had. 

“I lost control. Nearly started a forest fire because of my stupidity. I guess the pain surprised me and I lost my grip on the magic.” she said. Shame dripped from her words. A shame so heavy Solas wondered if she would even continue to learn magic. 

“Did you expect to play with fire and  _ not  _ get burned?” he asked, his tone lacking accusation or mockery, “Such is the way of fire. It warms, it burns. Anyone who aims to tame it is bound to feel it. The most numerous injuries reported in Circles are burns. Why?”

He finished bandaging up the wound, the gauze secured with strips of cloth tied around her torso. Solas found her girth remarkably small, even for an elf. Now that he noticed it, she  _ was  _ remarkably small even by elven standards. The elves of the modern world lacked much of what the Elvhen enjoyed. The elves today were small and slim, whereas the Elvhen would tower over the tallest of humans and their builds were nowhere near as slight or dainty. When he woke, he found that his own body had shrunk considerably. 

Faen dropped her shirt, her hand fisting the material up. “Fire is the most unpredictable,” she said. Solas nodded.

“Yes. The most irrational and unyielding of all elemental magic. You take great shame in your wound. You see it as a testament to your lack of ability.” he said.

The expression on her face confirmed his words. 

“Why do you care?” she asked thoughtfully. 

Her question was not one he expected. It was a question he had no answer for. Even he wasn’t sure why he cared. He could throw out the usual motivational and inspirational nonsense, feed her ego until it was nice and plump. But that wasn’t it. Not entirely. His reasons were much more selfish than uplifting her.

“You are...you have considerable talent. I would not see it squandered.” he said, carefully constructing his reply, “Besides, there are few things more dangerous than a mage who hasn’t the faintest idea what they’re doing.”

“You would see me tamed,” she said bluntly.

He shook his head. “I would see you educated and capable of grinding your enemies into a pulp with the refinery and precision education brings.”

Faen took a moment to consider his words, the silence filled with a palpable sense of slow trust. She trusted him to an extent already — he had her secret and she’d done little in the way of remedying that slip. She ventured willingly into the woods with him and allowed him to teach her magic. She allowed him to tend to her wound. But he did not have her full trust and he now knew why: she was afraid of having her potential nullified. Solas had no doubt that she recognized her full potential in a way, and was terrified of him tampering with it. 

“Thank you,” she finally admitted.

He nodded. “You are welcome. You will not come to harm with me,” he said.

Solas thought he saw a twinkle of acceptance in the depths of her eyes but he wasn’t sure if it was the true emotion or the fever. “I cannot treat you fully,” he admitted, wiping his hands off on a piece of cloth, “I trust Adan is better suited to treat your infection than I am. I have stymied the progression as best I can.”

“All the more reason to return to Haven,” she said.

“Yes. I would prefer you rest but I think it best if you pack your own things. I know I would not want a stranger to riffle through my possessions.” he said.

“You think us strangers?” 

His brow furrowed. “I’m not sure what we are. We know little of each other, but…” he began but hadn’t the words to finish.

“But we share enough.” she finished.

A small smile spread across his lips. “Perhaps.”

-+-

“It seems I owe you my life once again,” Faen said, her eyes adhered to the alchemist’s fingers at her wound. He was applying a mixture similar in texture to the one Solas had concocted, but the smell was far fouler. 

Adan did not look up from his work, his focus on smearing the burn with an even layer of the stuff. She hadn’t bothered to ask what it was. The smell was too foul for her to care. “Yes,” he said, “it does. That’s twice now.”

He finished applying his mixture and wound a bandage around her small ribcage. Besides the hideous odor, the concoction burned. Not to the degree of the burn itself, but it was uncomfortable enough. 

“Try not to get yourself killed, yeah?” he said, wiping his hands on a cloth.

She frowned. “Is it supposed to burn?” she asked.

He scoffed. “It’s eating away at the infection. People doubt the power of infection,” Adan said. He turned his back to stuff corks in an assortment of colorful bottles. Faen could make out labels on the bottles, the script on them scratchy and child-like. “More people die of infection than they do of actually being hacked up.”

“You’re right. I wasn’t thinking,” she said solemnly. There were many things to be ashamed of in this instance, the majority of which Solas would not approve of. Both of them could wholly agree that not seeking help to treat the burn was a fault in judgment. She was the one who did not dress it at all, she was the one who allowed the infection to fester, and she was the one who allowed it to fester long after she knew it  _ was  _ an infection.

“You can’t afford not to think,” Adan quipped. He turned to her. She’d never gotten a good look at his face before this moment; despite the lower half of his face being hidden behind the massive and dark bush of his beard, his features were just as grouchy as he was. Lips thin and in a perpetual frown. Eyes small and tired. Brows bushy and always drawn. He was not a friendly man by any stretch of the imagination, but he was one she was grateful for. 

She thanked him and took her leave, the room suddenly becoming too stuffy for comfort. Haven’s air was cold and crisp, tinged with the heavy smell of burning wood and bubbling pots of soup. Her sense of smell was not as refined as to detect the soup’s every ingredient but she did detect the smell of some form of meat boiling away. 

They returned to Haven three days prior, Faen in a considerable state of pain. How she’d managed the journey back from the Hinterlands was a mystery that surely baffled even the gods. Solas played no small part in that ability to push forward. While he was not as prolific at healing as a dedicated healer was, his talent was far from small. He did little to remove the infection, but he was capable of halting its progression and that was all she really needed.

She noticed Solas was not outside his cabin as he usually was and wondered briefly where he might be. Before she could get too lost in questioning, she noticed an all too familiar figure stalk her way. Her breastplate glittered faintly in the dying sunlight, its light revealing all the scratches and dings in the metal. At her side, her trusty sword sat comfortably in its scabbard. The sword was as trademark as her scowl.

Faen could not be certain of her intended path but the closer she drew, the more convinced she was that Cassandra had come to see her. These past few days of assembling and preparing for the meeting with the Chantry in Val Royeaux had cast her in no mood to deal with the Seeker. Combating pain atop stress made her most undesirable to converse with. But she considered herself ready now. They had never really spoken about what had happened in the tent the week or so prior. Now was as good a time as any.

“It has come to my attention that we got off on the wrong foot,” Cassandra said, halting in front of her. Her hand rested comfortably on the pommel of her sword. Anyone else would have interpreted the gesture as one of subtle (or not so subtle depending on the culture) aggression. Faen, however, did not. Time spent with the Seeker, no matter how tense, had granted her time to observe her. That was, after all, what Faen was good at. Observing people, no matter their race. Cassandra had a habit of resting her hand, if free, on her sword. Faen believed it comforted her. 

“Is that what you call it?” Faen asked, clasping her hands behind her back. She held her head high but was careful to not come off as prideful and above hearing what she had to say. 

“Since the very beginning, our relationship has been strained,” Cassandra said sheepishly.

“From what I’ve heard, that’s not that uncommon,” Faen responded. Varric said much on his circumstances for joining the Inquisition. 

Cassandra frowned. “Yes, but have you not considered why?” she asked.

Faen sighed. Her empathy overcame her, though her fight against it was no small battle. She did not want to be at odds with the Seeker — the Seeker had simply granted her no other choice. “You were just doing a job,” Faen granted. “I was a very good suspect, I’ll give you that. I do not know the details about Varric, but I am willing to admit that he might have also proven a delicious suspect as well.”

Cassandra’s expression lightened, her lips no longer turned in a hard frown. “Still…” 

Faen looked to the crowds amassing at the series of pots in the center of Haven. Her stomach gave a light grumble. She was hungry, there was no denying that. She hadn’t had much of an appetite these past few days, her pain and discomfort too intense to do much more than nibble on bits of bread. But it appeared to be returning. 

“Have dinner with me,” she offered and walked off. She expected the Seeker to follow. 

They nabbed a place in line, Faen having to deny the handful of people who insisted she go before them. She shrugged off their comments about her being touched by Andraste with uncanny ease and it frightened her. The faithful were insistent that they refer to her as ‘Herald’ or ‘Your Worship’. Anything other than reverence and acknowledgment of divinity was unofficially deemed blasphemous. She wondered many things. Did they think she took offense to being called by anything other than the holy names? Did they think she believed she was sent by the Maker? Did any of them know her name or the name of her clan? Each time someone looked at her with awe for the  _ Maker _ , the ‘Herald’, with no regard for her, she wanted to scream until her throat was shredded from the effort. This mindset was prevalent until a few days ago. Faen realized these people did not care for her, they cared for what she implied. They would not listen to her. She was half-convinced that not even the Maker stepping down from wherever he was to inform his flock that she was simply a product of poor timing could convince them she was not holy. Now she was indifferent, much in the same way that someone who was repeatedly met with a solid wall stops ramming it. 

Dinner was humble that night, as it was every night. The Inquisition was not starving but it often dallied too close to it for comfort. Meals were bland and the portions were small. The emphasis was on greens gathered from gardens all around Haven. Whatever protein there was to spare was limited. Tonight it was ram’s meat soup with leeks. 

With their bowls full and warm in their hands, they set off to find a quiet, secluded place to speak. Neither woman was interested in being overheard. Faen had lived in Haven for a few weeks but found she was not as well acquainted with it as Cassandra, for she hadn’t the faintest idea as to where a decent enough place was. There was always her cabin, which she shared with no one and only slept in, but it was too cozy a setting for Faen’s comfort. Her and Cassandra, as the Seeker had suggested, were not on the best of terms. But Cassandra took the charge and led her to a small space just beside the Chantry. It was a garden, one full of elfroot and smelling strongly of the earth. They sat on opposite ends of a bench situated off to the side. Soon they would plummet into darkness, as the sun was setting and they had no torches. Faen did not mind. She did not need the light to find her way through the conversation and besides, she conducted most of her work in the darkness. 

“I am sorry for what I implied,” Cassandra finally said.

Faen chased a chunk of meat with her spoon but did not answer. She waited for Cassandra to continue. 

“It was narrow-minded but I meant no offense,” she clarified.

“I was not offended,” Faen clarified. “If I took offense to everything a thoughtless  _ shem  _ uttered about me or the elves, I doubt I could function.”

She brought the rim of the wooden bowl to her lips and blew away the steam rising from the surface of the soup. “Even so, I do not tolerate such pointed and blatant ignorance of my people. A man in passing, muttering under his breath about a knife-ear is vastly different than a woman I share the forefront of an organization with. The elves are a race — not a hivemind. In my travels, I have met many elves who will willingly and proudly admit to following the teachings of Maker.”

Cassandra ducked her head and ran her gloved thumbs over the rounded underside of the bowl. She had hardly touched her soup. “I know. Forgive me, Herald,” she confessed. “I know this is not an excuse but I...growing up, I had no contact, no knowledge of the elves. I mean, I  _ knew  _ they existed but to me, they existed only in stories. My uncle was not very fond of elves and as such, made it a point to avoid allowing us contact with them. He even refused to have them as servants.” 

Faen loudly sipped on her soup. The taste was as bland and lifeless as she expected. “You are from Nevarra, yes?” she asked. 

Cassandra nodded. “I hail from Nevarra, yes. But I do not consider myself Nevarran.” 

Faen’s brow quirked in question. “Oh? Do tell.” 

Cassandra sighed and sat her bowl of soup down, finally deciding to be rid of it. She wasn’t eating it anyway. “I was born Cassandra Pentaghast, seventy-eighth in line for the Nevarran throne,” she admitted wearily. “My parents were executed when I was scarcely old enough to remember then. King Markus was swayed by my uncle to spare us from the headsman’s axe, as my brother and I were just children. I spent a handful of years in my homeland, saw even less due to my uncle’s intense protectiveness. How can I call myself a Nevarran when I know more about the practices of the Chantry in Orlais than I do of everyday life in Nevarra?” 

Faen was genuinely surprised by her revelation. Her inkling that the Seeker came from an extreme place of privilege was not incorrect. She knew little of Nevarran royalty but royalty was the same everywhere. They had their jewels and their fine dresses, their bountiful meals and extensive education, their glamorous parties and their horrendously long names. In spite of all this and the life Faen was convinced Cassandra once led, the Seeker never once had an air of superiority. Her royal background explained her lack of exposure to elves but could not explain how… humble she was.

“Royalty…” Faen repeated. “I’m sure you have quite the tale of how you ended up here.”

Cassandra grimaced. “ _ Royalty, _ ” she spat as if the word tasted disgusting in her mouth, “There is no chance I’ll ever see the throne. Half of Cumberland can say the same as me. The only connection we have is a name on a chart and oh, how the nobility loves their charts.”

“Of course they do,” Faen said. “It’s the only thing keeping them from hard work.”

Cassandra chuckled at that. “Yes,” she said. “I could never stand it. My uncle treated me like a porcelain doll — too delicate to be handled by much of anyone and too precious to allow the world to see. He was far too concerned with his corpses to care too terribly much about me and Anthony though.”

“Pardon? Corpses?”

“My uncle is Mortalitasi. Nevarrans do not burn their dead like the rest of Thedas. They believe the dead should be preserved and used as vessels for displaced spirits of the Fade. Mages are trusted with this, called Mortalitasi,” Cassandra explained.

How interesting. “Magic runs in your family?” Faen asked.

“If you take blood from nearly every family in the country and mix it together as the Pentaghasts have, magic is bound to run in it,” the Seeker replied.

“My question still stands: how does Nevarran nobility become a Seeker and Right Hand of the Divine  _ and  _ form a heretical organization? I presume you were running from your blood.” 

Cassandra frowned something deep and infinitely sad. “Aren’t we all? Running from a life that demanded of us something we were not willing to give?” 

Faen finished with her dull soup, set it aside and shook her head. “I am not. My life demanded nothing of me that was too precious to give up.” 

A flash of anger sparkled in Cassandra’s eyes. Clearly, she took offense. “You were truly so content with your life that you didn’t rebel against it in the slightest?” 

It was Faen’s turn to take offense. “I am not a passive rock on the shore allowing the waves to rush over me. My life had direction. It still does. But I had no reason to lash out from my life and start a new one. I knew nothing different from what I already knew,” she barked. It was a lie. A filthy lie that she did not regret telling the Seeker but one that pained her to say aloud.

Cassandra sighed and closed her eyes for a time. “Forgive me. I’m more sensitive about my decisions than I should be,” she admitted.

Faen waited for her to continue. 

“The life of pomp and luxury was one worth getting away from. The Pentaghasts are famed for dragon-hunting. Few actually pursue the craft. Most are fat and lazy, living only for idle pleasures and paying lip service to the Maker when the cause suits them. I refused to accept that life. My brother, Anthony, was the only thing keeping me in Nevarra. Once he was gone, so was I. I joined the Seekers not long after his death and I do not regret it.” 

“Your brother...what happened to him?” Faen asked. She knew such subjects must be handled with care, and she should have tip-toed around it instead of stomping all over it with heavy boots. But she was a girl given to insane curiosity and she could not help it.

The sadness came back to Cassandra’s eyes, this time it seeped even deeper into her features than before. “I do not remember,” she lied. Horribly. 

Faen nodded and looked away. “I lost someone dear to me,” she admitted wistfully. Her vision lost its focus and she saw not the pointed leaves of the elfroot in the plot before her but the long white hair of A’len. “It was bound to happen. Mortals are made of flesh and flesh is not eternal. But even that did not remove the shock and excitement from it. That loss… it seeped into everything I am. It made me who I am. It never leaves you, no matter how hard you try. I am sorry.” 

Cassandra gave a slight nod acknowledging the truth of her words but she said nothing more. A’len was not as sore a subject as Anthony but the woman’s death and everything about her was still a raw nerve ending. After all this time, it still ached something fierce to remember the old elf. 

“So, the Right Hand of the Divine?” Faen prodded, trying to fill the awkward silence.

“Yes. I served Divine Justinia and Divine Beatrix before her.”

“I was under the impression that the Right Hand of the Divine was a position filled by a Templar.” 

Cassandra looked to Faen. For a moment, surprise ran wild on her face. Faen could guess why. A Dalish elf with such knowledge on the Chantry ways?

“Do not look at me in such a way. I was tasked with spying on humans and by extension, the Chantry, for my clan. Keeper Deshanna saw it as a way of granting the clan leverage in trading,” Faen explained.

The look did not dissipate. In fact, it seemed to deepen. “A spy? You can’t be but...what? Seventeen?” Cassandra gasped.

“ _ Eighteen,  _ and somewhat freshly at that, but thank you all the same,” Faen countered casually. Perhaps it was a touch barbaric to be the foremost spy for her clan, seeing as she began at such a young age. But it was required and the Dalish had a custom of treating their young as respected individuals worthy of much responsibility. Time was not a luxury the Dalish could afford with such small numbers. Clan Lavellan was rather large by Dalish standards, their numbers reaching well above three hundred, but traditions died slow deaths. “I was ten when I started my training, twelve when I was first thrust into the field on my own.”

Cassandra blinked, Faen’s words washing over her but hardly sinking in. Clearly, the Seeker did not approve of the situation. That was of little bother to Faen. 

“Uh, yes. Right Hand of the Divine is usually reserved for a Templar. My circumstances were… unusual to say the least,” Cassandra said. 

“Unusual how?”

Cassandra groaned in pleasure. Faen threw her an odd glance. “Oh, Maker’s mercy, you have not heard the stories.” She clasped her gloved hands before her in mock prayer.

“I might not have but now I am beyond intrigued. I will lull it out of you,” Faen taunted in jest.

“Believe me, the tale is nothing as grand as others make it out to be. It’s rather simple and straightforward.” 

“In your telling perhaps.”

Cassandra shot her a wicked glare and Faen smiled nastily. 

“The short of it is that I was responsible for saving the previous Divine’s life. My reward was serving as her Hand,” Cassandra mumbled.

Faen scooted herself a hare closer to the woman. She was honestly invested in what she had to say. Her favorite member of the clan, besides A’len and maybe the Keeper, had been Nana. Unlike the Keeper, Nana had stories of the world outside of the elves. She told her tales of Orlesian frills and parties, stories of Fereldan honor and glory. Nana had imbued in her a sense of romance and thirst for stories. 

“I grew tired of the position after a time. It was a position one could easily grow tired of. Justinia convinced me to stay but it was her vision for the world that convinced me, not her begging.” 

“Yes, yes. Give me the long story.”

Cassandra frowned but sighed in obedience. “Sweet Andraste, it was — how long ago was it? Eighteen, twenty years ago?” Cassandra mused, “Older than you.”

Faen nodded.

“The tale seems to grow with each telling. I hardly recognize myself in it,” she continued.

“That is the way of stories. They are living things, after all,” Faen informed her.

Cassandra grunted. “I’m sure you’ll get a taste of it soon enough,” she said and Faen frowned. She was right but that made the idea even worse. “You would think I alone saved Divine Beatrix from a horde of dragons sent to assault the Grand Cathedral. Rather impressive for a young Seeker, wouldn’t you say?” 

“I would. But what is the truth?”

“I  _ stumbled  _ upon a grand conspiracy to assassinate Divine Beatrix. A templar knight-commander was at its heart. And there was a dragon battle at the Grand Cathedral, but I had help from loyal mages who dedicated themselves to the cause.  _ They  _ were the ones who freed the dragons from magical control. Without them, the Divine and I would have surely died. Yet I became the Right Hand and they are forgotten in a Circle,” Cassandra hissed. The last part bothered her immensely. Faen could tell her frustration through the way her fists clenched on her thighs.

“Ah. That is how things are. The mages, the elves, it makes no difference. Their efforts will always be diminished,” Faen stated bitterly. 

“I do not believe your efforts will be diminished by the shape of your ears,” Cassandra spoke softly.

Faen smiled sadly. Cassandra had her moments. “Your appraisal is much kinder than most. I do not share your optimism,” she said.

“I meant to say you will not let them diminish your efforts.”

Faen met Cassandra’s dark eyes. The two women stared at each other, their gazes shedding layers of clothing, flesh, and even bone to see what lie underneath. Faen saw a woman who was once small and incapable of much. But now that woman was hardened and resilient, unyielding to the whims of men and their ilk. Cassandra saw a woman who was never quite small but was never given the proper means to flourish. She saw someone who was unafraid and navigated a world that hated her with defiance. Such a moment was a far cry from their first encounter, Cassandra’s sharp blade biting into the sensitive flesh of her throat. It was also a far cry from the exchange in the tent weeks past. 

“You’re right. I will not,” Faen affirmed and Cassandra smiled in satisfaction.

“I expected no less.”

-+-

Faen started the fire easily. There was no elaborate show of starting it up this time — all she had to do was gather the wood and sit before the fireplace and conjure the flame up. This time, she held the flame with immense caution, vowing to never again let the flames startle and overcome her. With the fire gently roaring away in the fireplace, Faen had changed into her sleep clothes and began to settle down for the night. She followed Adan’s orders on leaving the bandage alone, as she had the previous nights, and pulled back the blankets on her bed when a knock at the door sounded.

Odd. No one dared bothered her in her cabin. The faithful were too afraid to deny their savior even a second of sleep. She padded over to the door, her hand coming to rest on the cool metal of the knob, and pulled gently. She did not open the door all the way, instead opting to crack it a bit to see who had bothered her.

“Solas,” she breathed.

“Yes, forgive me for intruding, but we have not had much time to speak since our return,” Solas said. “Might I come in?”

Faen opened the door for him, granting him entry into her humble quarters. In his arms sat a giant stack of thick and ancient tomes. She took a few books from the top to lighten his load. He nodded in appreciation.

“What is all this?” she asked, setting her pile down on her desk and motioning for Solas to follow.

With a sigh, Solas relieved himself of the stack, the books landing on the table with a heavy thud. “Some light reading on magical practices. I scrounged up what I could. You can imagine that Haven is not as sufficiently laden with texts regarding the arcane as I would like. This is all well within your skill level.”

Faen’s fingers graced over the stack of spines, her eyes taking in their titles. This was a hefty stack, consisting of over ten books by her count. While she was excited to conquer their secrets, she dreaded the actual act of conquering them. 

“Are you giving me homework?” she meant to tease but the apprehension in her voice was palpable. 

Solas stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his head held high. He looked strikingly regal and unmoveable. “If that is what you wish to call it. The truth is not so simple. I do not bog you down with all this to torture you. A great deal of learning magic is self-led.” 

She frowned and opened the book at the top of the pile and thumbed through its old pages. It smelled heavily of dust, the odor almost choking her. Its pages were yellowed and brittle, the edges folded over lovingly to mark the spot. The characters upon the page were impossibly small but still somewhat legible. This particular tome touched on rerouting energy from one’s own personal barriers to strengthen and sustain another’s. Of course, the specifics were nonsense. 

“I don’t know how to cast barriers,” she stated plainly.

“I did not mean for you to consume this all in one night. We leave for Val Royeaux soon and I wanted you to have these with you. Fire magic teaches the basics and while there is much to learn between fire and barriers, I think it prudent for you to learn about barriers in the coming days.” 

That was understandable, though she worried greatly about the significant leap from fire magic to barriers. She’d seen Solas cast his barriers, noted the effort required to sustain and even conjure them. Was she prepared? It did not matter. Solas would demand it of her and she had the strange and compelling urge to give, to please him. It wounded her pride a bit.

She continued to sort through the various texts. Solas’s steely eyes roamed her room as she did so. It was a simple dwelling, one she hardly spent the time on customizing. But there were a few items of import to her that added modest flare. Her furs for one. The Keeper had gifted them to her in the days before she set out for the Conclave. Looking at it now, Faen realized that the Keeper likely did not expect her to return. 

Solas’s grey eyes turned to the fireplace and he silently strode over to it, his knees popping as he knelt at it. 

“Did you have much trouble with the fire tonight?” he asked.

Faen looked up from her pile and walked over to him. “No. The flame gave me no trouble. It was… fairly easy. I bet I was too careful this time.” 

“I do not blame you. Your burn was a nasty one and losing control of any magic, fire magic especially, is a trying event,” he said.

An air of silence blossomed between them, the pair content to bask in the warmth of the fire for a time. But Solas broke that silence was a proposition.

“You needn’t always expend yourself to light the fire,” he said, turning to look up at her, “I can show you the rune for fire.”

Faen took up the spot beside him, her legs twisting beneath her. She peered into the fire with rapt curiosity. It’s flames danced as if an ancient tune had enticed them to it. Wood cackled away like a madman in a fit of sheer brilliance. “I didn’t know runes could be sustained for extended periods of time,” she said.

“Not the runes you’re likely thinking of. Runes in battle are imbued with magic and detonate when disturbed. The rune I aim to teach you holds a charge, not for forever, but long enough.” Solas quelled the flame with a simple snap of his fingers, its light and warmth extinguished in the blink of an eye. His magic had also somehow sapped the heat from the charred embers, as he reached in and pushed them aside with ease. 

His long fingers drew a simple rune into the ashes. Faen took careful note. When he finished, she wasn’t sure if he did something specific to cement the rune in the place or if the act of finishing it was enough, but the rune burned faintly for a second before it was etched into the stone of the fireplace. 

His work now complete, Solas threw in a few pieces of firewood, arranging them haphazardly in the fireplace. When he was done, he turned to her. “Runes are quite simple. Everyone draws them a bit differently but that is of no matter. All you need to do is pour your magic into the rune and you shall have a fire.” 

Faen nodded and closed her eyes, drawing up a helping of her magic and extending it to the rune. But she was interrupted by the feel of Solas’s hand on her own. Her eyes flew open, panic set in that she had done something wrong. Solas gently guided her hand to the rune, his fingers forcing hers to extend and rest atop the rune. 

“Contact is preferable,” he said, a faint smile on his lips. “Otherwise you risk sending your raw energy out into the world. Ever seen the air catch fire or furniture burst into a thousand little pieces?” 

His hand was surprisingly cold, cold enough to make Faen fuss over it. 

“Solas, you’re  _ freezing, _ ” she chastised, quickly pouring her mana into the rune and setting the wood aflame. 

The rune was close to the fire and Faen tore her hand back quickly, denying herself the chance of another burn. Solas chuckled.

“There is no need. Look,” he said softly, releasing her wrist to dip his hands into the flames. “It is not a fire that burns.”

Faen’s brows drew together, puzzled at the sight before her. “Do not change the subject with your mysterious fire. Your hands are freezing. Stay here and warm yourself at this fire-that-doesn’t-burn,” she scolded, frowning.

“Exercising your authority for once?” Solas teased but he relented. He sat with his hands extended out towards the fire, his legs crossed beneath him.

“I  _ have  _ no authority,” she mumbled and did the same as him.

“Do you not? It is not Cassandra or Cullen the clerics are meeting with in Val Royeaux. It is you.” he said.

“They’re meeting with the Inquisition,” she clarified.

“Because of you. You rattle their faith like children rattle on the bars of caged curiosities. You wield a power you do not know,” he said. Faen detected that he wanted to add a ‘and do not understand’ at the end of his sentence. 

They sat in silence, warming themselves by the strange fire that did not burn. Faen’s mind did not race; rather it strolled leisurely through all the possible thoughts she could have. “Do you think I’m chosen?” she whispered, her words so faint they were barely audible above the crackling of the fire.

“I do not know.”

She shifted. “I do not think so. I have no recollection of what transpired at the Temple. But...I don’t think I need to. It does not matter. I have the mark.” She paused and frowned. “I can feel the weight of their hope upon my shoulders.”

Solas listened carefully. 

“It’s cruel to force a single person to fix this mess. It’s even crueler to force their beliefs upon me,” she said distantly. “I’m alone in this, I know that much. This is my burden to bear.”

“You are not alone, Faeneth. You have me. You have Varric and Cassandra. You have everyone here in Haven, hanging onto your every word as if you were Andraste in the flesh. You will not walk this path alone,” Solas said gently, his hand resting on her shoulder. 

Faen did not like to be touched. A’len was a handsy woman who communicated through gestures and touch. Even as a child did she hate it. Typically she would recoil or promptly remove the offending hand, harshly command they remove their hands from her. But she did not with Solas. She had to fight off the urge to lean into his touch, for it was gentle yet firm, solid yet yielding. His touch held many things and all of them she wanted. She could not tell why. 

She turned to look at him, her eyes burning with all the passion and dedication she could muster. He was right — the people of Haven looked to her for much more than guidance, as they do with Andraste. But she was not Andraste. She was a small Dalish elf, one who was more often than not angry and quiet. Even so…

“I will not disappoint you,” she told him firmly.

He returned her gaze, passion of his own burning within the depths of his eyes. “I have never doubted you, Faeneth,” he said.

She believed him

-+-

_ I will not disappoint you. _

_ I have never doubted you. _

He had been telling the truth and from the glitter of pride in her large eyes, she believed him. She did not know that his truth was not one borne of any sort of show of might on her part. There hadn’t been much room for doubt in the first place, had there? He believed in her because he had to, not because of anything she’d done. Faen was the only person capable of fixing this mess, sewing the Breach back together, and restoring a modicum of order in this dreary world. She would be of little use if he treated her as inept and lackluster. After some careful consideration, she was neither. He’d seen her wield both a blade  _ and  _ magic and both were impressive.

But he did not know her. She was someone with impeccably horrible timing and enough resolve to not dissolve under the weight upon her shoulders. Looking at it now, both were testaments to her character in their own right. 

He was giving her a chance which was more than he had done to anyone in this age. 

The plan had backfired spectacularly and in a way, Solas could not help but look upon with admiration and humor. Of course, the situation was beyond fucked. The humor came from someplace dark, someplace where self-loathing and inadequacy festered like cancer. It was… typical of anything of his design. Fen’Harel, the god of betrayal? More like Fen’Harel, the god of good intentions and horrible execution. 

Were his intentions really all that benign? Restoring the elvhen was an admirable goal but at the expense of the entire world? It was a quandary he had considered more than a handful of times. As much as he battled with the concept, it was never a strong enough guilt to lull him to inaction. He  _ would  _ go forth with his plans; that was never uncertain. What was uncertain was his morality. 

Solas had resigned himself to be what he truly was a long time ago — the end of his people. But he would not resign himself to the finality of it. One must often break a bone to reset it.

-+-

Faen had been cleared for travel two days prior to their departure. Adan was sufficiently pleased with the lack of infection but still gave her strict instructions for how to care for her burn. Solas had caught a glimpse of the burn when she bent over to dig through a crate full of furs, her shirt far too big for her small frame. He had not meant to look but his eyes were drawn down the shirt in much the same way as one is drawn to watch something horrible unfold. It was common knowledge that Faen preferred to roam free of a breast band, her small nipples often standing boldly against particularly thin shirts, and Solas, when made aware of their presence, would try his best to afford her respect and fend off a blush. Usually, she wore layers that hid the protrusions, but not at this moment. 

He saw her bare breasts, small and taut on her chest, and just beneath them, he saw the end of her burn peeking out. It was no longer the nasty, angry thing it once was. It would certainly scar but she would not succumb to infection. He was grateful for the mastery of Adan.

Solas was ashamed of how his thoughts lingered on her breasts. He had never considered Faen attractive — her eyes were too big and lacked the slender delicacy of the elvhen women he so fervently chased, her hair was not as fair as he liked, her jaw was too square, and her limbs were too gangly to mimic the grace of her ancestors — but he’d been hundreds of years without. He was unconscious, yes, but his body was more than well aware of the time he’d gone without the touch of another. After he’d woken, his thoughts were far from carnal pleasures. Even now, riding several paces behind her, he was not too consumed with sating his desires. But every now and again, most commonly when Faen turned to address him and Varric beside him, the image of her chest would dance across his memory and he would have to squeeze his eyes shut and dismiss those thoughts. Besides, he thought it highly disrespectful to look at her and see only her breasts. He respected her enough to feel guilt. 

“You okay, Chuckles?” Varric asked, giving his shoulder a lighthearted punch.

Solas offered a strained smile. “I am,” he said, opening his eyes to reveal the world before them. 

Varric did not pester him further, the rest of their ride being carried out in relative silence. 

-+-

The knock at his door was jarring — a hard rap on the wood with such emphasis on the use of knuckles that the act was likely painful. He answered the door with slight agitation, for he was in the midst of warming a bath for himself. The inn nearest to Val Royeaux that did not cost them an arm and a leg was a cozy little hovel but one ultimately lacking in privacy and accommodations. It was even less equipped than Haven.

“Yes?” he quipped as he opened the door, his left hand holding together the towel around his hips.

He regretted his irritated tone when he saw who it was: Faen, head bowed in a slim book. When she looked up, her eyes roaming the expanse of his body, her face gave no indication of his state of undress. 

“I can come back,” she said.

“No, it is quite alright. Excuse my poor manners. How can I help you, Faeneth?” he asked. He gripped at the towel tighter, feeling slightly awkward just standing there.

“Can I come in?” she asked, looking around, “It’s a very private matter for your ears only.”

He understood. Solas motioned her in, opening the door wider to allow her room to squeeze in. She brushed past him with ease, her warmth a gentle caress as she passed. Her hair, done neatly in a plait winding around her crown, smelled of spruce and lavender. When she was in, he closed the door behind her and strode into the cramped room. He noted the black cat at her heels.

Faen climbed up onto his bed, her back facing him in an effort to afford him some privacy. He was grateful but felt...odd about disrobing and bathing with her present in the room.

“I’m sorry, I normally wouldn’t intrude, but this was...well. Not urgent but the question was burning,” she said, tucking her legs beneath her. 

Solas strode to the edge of the tub, the water within reflecting a perfect replica of his face. He settled his magic into it, steam rising not soon after. When he was certain she wasn’t looking, he dropped his towel and slid into its warmth. He had to hold back a content sigh. 

“It’s quite alright. I am glad to see you so eager to learn,” he said.

“Yes,” she mused absently, flicking through the pages of the book furiously. “I had a question about barriers. Some of it’s over my head but there’s one thing I found particularly baffling.”

It should have all been baffling. He did not sit her with a book and expect her to teach herself the mechanics of a barrier. Barriers, while not necessarily advanced, were quite a complex technique and a pain to fully grasp. For her to read a book all about barriers and only have one question…

“Go on,” he said.

“The text goes on as if barriers were some type of elemental magic. From everything I’ve gleaned, they’re implied to be a form of ice magic,” she said.

He chuckled lightly and laid his head to rest on the lip of the tub. “Yes,” he said.

“But I thought that the art of casting barriers came from the spiritual school.”

“This is correct.”

He could practically hear her features contort into a confused frown. She huffed and puffed to follow. He smiled to himself, taking great pleasure in teasing someone so responsive.

“So what is the truth? Is it elemental or spiritual?”

“I have a question myself, if you will let me pose it,” Solas said.

Beside him, he heard her shift, the wooden frame of the bed creaking beneath her movement. He thought she had turned to look at him but when he cracked an eye, he saw only her back.

“Go ahead.” 

“How many things in life have a duality about them?” he requested.

Silence ensued as she pondered his question. “A great many things,” she hesitantly answered.

“Exactly. Almost all magic is not simply one or the other. Magic works so well because it is the product of co-mingling forces that work together to shape the world.” 

“Alright...but how are barriers elemental, specifically of the ice elemental?”

“Barriers are cooling. There are some variants of the spell that can apply warmth to the recipient, but most mages prefer cooling,” he answered.

He heard the languid turning of several pages, the pauses in between likely due to her quickly scanning the pages for something. When the silence extended beyond longer than he expected, he opened his eyes. His chest seized when saw the ghost of her bare breasts before him. He blinked several times to clear the image and was beyond relieved to find Faen’s back was still turned to him, her spine curved over the text in her lap. He inhaled deeply, massaging his temples to further rid his mind of the intrusion. But that blasted cat was turned to him, watching him with those big green eyes. Considering what Gitta was, he felt slightly violated. With a flick of his wrist, he showered the cat lightly with water. Gitta hissed and arched her back, darting to Faen’s front to show her owner what he did. He took great pleasure in disturbing the cat. Ever since he and Faen had stumbled upon the creature in the Hinterlands, it had hissed and growled at him as if he posed some sort of threat. 

“I know,  _ arlise. _ ” Faen cooed, stroking the annoying beast, “He’s a wicked man.”

Solas scoffed. “Say what you will, the creature was watching me bathe,” he said lightheartedly. 

“Bathe? Please. You’re just sitting there in the water, bothering my cat,” Faen replied. She was a bit hard to read. He thought his skills of reading people were excellent but Faen was a puzzle. She could’ve been joking. She could’ve been serious and irritated. Despite the possibility of both, Solas thought he detected a hint of a smile in her words.

“Bathing, sitting, it is of no matter. I am in a state of undress and your beast’s eyes burn holes in me as if I’m committing the greatest sin,” he teased.

Faen snapped the book shut and pulled Gitta into her lap, various kisses being showered upon the cat. It gave a scratchy meow. “Do not listen to him. You are no beast. You are my sweet little Gitta,” she cooed.

Solas rolled his eyes and propped his head upon the elbow resting on the edge of the tub. “Anything else, Faeneth?” he asked, “I would like some peace and privacy  _ to _ bathe.”

Faen stood up, the book tucked beneath her right arm which held Gitta and her left hand covering her eyes. She navigated the room as best she could, frequently bumping into corners of objects filling the surprisingly cramped room. Solas chuckled at her antics but was nonetheless appreciative of her covering her eyes. The whole thing had been a little odd, to say the least. Faen, someone he liked and considered himself closest to in the entire Inquisition but still too much of a ‘stranger’ to lounge naked around comfortably, sitting there as he soaked in the bath. There was a time when he hadn’t a care who saw him naked — stranger, friend, lord, lady, lover. They were all the same to him. In his youth, he was near bursting with pride over his body and didn’t care who he showed it off to as long as they looked upon his physique with obvious adoration. That time, like many others, had long since passed and he much preferred to keep to himself.

Finally, Faen found the door and dropped her hand to the handle when he stopped her.

“Oh, and Faen?” he called. 

She paused.

“Cassandra informed me that we are to ‘be as innocuous as possible’,” he informed her.

“‘We’, meaning?”

“You and me.”

Faen chuckled, a sound he could admit he hadn’t heard much of. “Right. The two of us? In  _ civilized  _ society? A travesty. I suppose I will heed her words.” 

Solas had the feeling she would, in fact,  _ not  _ heed the Seeker’s words.

-+-

His suspicion was correct. Faen purposefully circumvented the Seeker’s word and did herself up in the least innocuous way possible. While she did not don the robes of her people, Faen pulled back the hair atop her head and plaited it intricately, leaving the rest to fall in messy curls over her shoulders and down her back. This accentuated the sharp tips of her ear, their shape unmistakable. Her canine leather boots had been traded for rich green footwraps that wound themselves up her calve to just below her knee. Her human made armor, gifted to her courtesy of the Inquisition’s smith, had been replaced by armor that was  _ distinctly  _ elven. 

Solas held in his laughter as the group convened in the tavern of the inn, the expression on Cassandra’s face too perfect and too shocked to be anything but delicious. But the Seeker held her tongue and with a strained composure, they were off.

Faen gave no hint of her pride but he could tell she was drowning in it, as she should have been.  _ He  _ was proud of  _ her.  _ Cassandra’s request angered him, though he saw the wisdom of downplaying their obvious heritage in the religious and political capital of Orlais. When he last walked these lands, being an elf was something to take pride in. Even when the humans began to seep into their world, elves were still powerful and beautiful. No one would dare gasp in disgust at the sight of their ears, rather they’d be so taken by their beauty and grace and might, the breath would leave them.

Solas considered making a grand show of his race but… he had learned the hard way where pride and actively goading the ‘enemy’ got you. His lack of hair easily exposed his ears but that was not a purposeful act. It was one he was grateful for nonetheless, but that was the extent of his show.

Although, when they passed through the grand ornate gates of Val Royeaux, Solas realized that his clothing was also an affront to the culture of the city and even Orlais. The men and women they passed were weighed down with heavy gowns and doublets of silk and velvet, with the occasional satin (or damask, he couldn’t tell which) thrown in for diversity. Their masks, inlaid with precious gems that twinkled in the sunlight like hungry eyes or painted complexly to mimic that of filigree and gemstones, hid the upper half of their faces and revealed the powdered and painted lower half. He ran a hand over his shabby green vest, lined with beaver fur and well-worn, and felt his own sense of pride swell. No, he could not compare to their lavish and overt displays of finery and wealth, but he didn’t need to. A god walked amongst them in simple clothing and he was not ashamed.

The people of Val Royeaux responded accordingly to his and Faen’s presence. As they walked past small huddles of nobles, he caught their glares and when they covered their colored lips with their gloved hands, Solas knew what was on their tongues. One woman gasped and dropped the delicate teacup she held, its body shattering into a million pieces and its content drenching the ground. Cassandra spoke lowly about how the nobles knew they were with the heretical Inquisition and were horrified, but he and Faen shared a knowing look. 

The people’s response did little to shake Faen, it would seem. She continued on through the many streets as if she were totally unbothered by the looks and gossip. It was… interesting to see. He found it hard to shrug off the humans. He knew his worth, knew his power and prowess was so far above that of any human alive that they could no longer see its height. This anger was not felt for himself. No, his blood boiled for his people — the ones lost to time. Their memory was insulted by these humans and their slurs and it stirred in him a rage that he had not felt in ages. The elves of today were so  _ passive,  _ so  _ docile  _ and it was sickening. He looked away from Faen felt conflicted, caught between admiring her unwavering pride in herself, her people and resenting her for feeding into the idle image of her people the humans so loved. 

-+-

The Lord Seeker had a cruel face, one set in anger and disgust. Cassandra tried in earnest to reason with him, to lull him to see reason, but men with swords as big as his rarely saw reason. They saw what they wanted to see, heard what pleased them to hear. Cassandra’s efforts to get through to him were almost pathetic and Faen felt a tug of sympathy for her.

“Creating a heretical movement, raising up an elf as Andraste’s puppet.” the Lord Seeker listed, his words quiver with rage, “You should be ashamed of yourself. You should  _ all  _ be ashamed! The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages. You are the ones who have failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with fear and doubt! If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is  _ mine _ .”

Cassandra balked, her shock and horror clearly written across her face. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she found her voice to speak, conjured the words to say.

A small “what” was all she could manage. 

The Lord Seeker sneered viciously. “You were never one for a lack of words, Cassandra,” he spat. “You heard me: the Templars are above you and your  _ Inquisition.  _ The mere idea that you came here, seeking what? Redemption? Permission? Aid? It does not matter — it is all pathetic and insulting.”

Cassandra clenched her jaw tight, the muscles in her jaw bulging and straining. Instead of immediate anger, Faen could see the hurt in her eyes. 

“And you,” the Lord Seeker barked, turning his gaze upon her, “You have yet to address your better.”

Faen flashed him her nastiest mock smile, hoping to drown him in her sweetness. “Forgive me, I did not think you  _ wished  _ to be addressed by me,” she sang.

His nostrils flared. “Who would have thought? An elven brat, a mockery of something she can’t possibly fathom, with a mouth,” he growled. 

“Yes. It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” she said. The smile remained for a second longer before it melted into a hard, displeased line. “For all your righteousness and  _ noble  _ dedication to your cause, you sure are making quite the show of your superiority. I thought Templars were called to the cause for reasons other than recognition. I suggest you devote yourself to this eradication of mages, a truly holy calling, and nothing else. Mages are an awfully abundant bunch. Might want to get a head start there instead of needlessly beating a defenseless woman of the same faith you so proudly wield.”

The Lord Seeker snarled at her. “Insolent!” he bellowed and stepped towards her, clearly wanting to grab her by the front of her shirt and shake her until her neck snapped. Perhaps he expected her to step down, retreat behind Cassandra. But she did not. She stood strong against him and her companions brandished their weapons in her defense. Faen could not be certain what stopped him in his tracks but something did, and he was left standing with all the rage in the world.

A dark-skinned man appeared at his side, his features tempered by reservation. “What if it’s true? What if she is sent to us by the Maker?” he asked.

Another man, the man responsible for knocking the Mother who slandered her and the Inquisition so fiercely off her feet, addressed him. “You are called to a higher purpose! Do not question!” 

“ _ I  _ will make the Templar order a power that stands alone against the Void.  _ We  _ deserve recognition! Independence!” the Lord Seeker exclaimed.

Faen wanted to mention that they alone could not stand against the Void, as they had no way of  _ closing _ that Void. She held her tongue. It did little good to rile up the madness in men who saw themselves as the One.

The Templars behind him bowed their heads and threw their right arms over their torsos to rest over their breast. 

“You have shown me nothing and the Inquisition… less than nothing.” the Lord Seeker continued, “Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march!” 

And march they did.

Varric made a comment about the Seeker’s pleasantness and Cassandra simply gawked as what remained of the Templar force in Val Royeaux marched off. 

“Has he gone mad?” she breathed, incapable of grasping the reality of what just happened.

“I can’t say anything on the ‘gone’ part but it sure as hell seems like he  _ is  _ mad,” Varric mumbled.

Faen frowned. “You were a Seeker,” she said, turning to Cassandra, “You must have known him.”

“Lord Seeker Lucius took over the Seekers of Truth two years ago, shortly after the death of Lord Seeker Lambert.” Cassandra said, “He was… always a decent man. Never given to ambition and grandstanding. This is very bizarre.” 

“It is almost customary to lose your shit when the world begins to crumble,” Faen observed.

“There is no better time to do so. The world is already ending, what does it matter if you give in to weakness and desire?” Solas added.

“Yes…” Faen agreed, narrowing her eyes at the last of the Templars, “I had plans to _ avoid _ an alliance with the Templars, to begin with. This just cements that notion.”

“You write them off too easily,” Cassandra said. “There must be those within the Order who see reason. There must.”

“I will not ally the Inquisition with madmen who think their higher calling is the mindless slaughter of innocents,” Faen countered.

“The rebel mages are hardly innocent. You were there on the frontlines — you see how they kill indiscriminately,” Cassandra said.

“You ladies can wax and wane poetically about the Mage/Templar conflict all you like when we’re fed,” Varric interjected, physically getting between the two women. His face was a beacon of friendliness. “I’m starved.”

Faen looked anywhere but at Cassandra, preferring to not have the Seeker destroy the carefully constructed image she had of her. Their talk in Haven had been nice and enlightening; Val Royeaux and what unfolded here would not ruin it. In her efforts to avoid Cassandra, she caught sight of the wounded Mother collapsed into a pile atop the platform she spewed her nonsense from. Faen strode over to her slowly, her movements hinting at the pride that bubbled just beneath the surface.

“What does the Maker say about justice, Mother?” Faen asked, crossing her arms before her chest.

The woman, whose name Faen did not know, was no longer troubled by the pain of the blow the Lord Seeker’s henchman inflicted but by something much more profound. She was mortified, frightened not only by the presence of the heretics at her doorstep but by the glaring betrayal of the last sense of protection she had left in this world. Faen felt a slight sense of remorse for mocking her.

The Mother let out a small chuckle. “How like you to gloat in my face, the bruised face of a woman with nothing left,” she spat. The quiet prayers of the clergy surrounding her increased in volume.

“I am not gloating,” Faen corrected her and turned to Solas, “Is there anything you can do for her? That hit looked hard.”

Solas nodded and moved to the Mother’s side, his hands extended in the effort to cast his healing spell. But the Mother recoiled. 

“You mock me,” she whispered and Solas frowned.

“I do not. You are the fool,” Faen said bitterly. “Say what you will about my existence or the existence of the Inquisition, but you’re foolishly circumventing the truth of our work to hold a grudge and be scared. Do you  _ like  _ being afraid, Mother? Do you like subjecting your people to fear and worry?”

The Mother remained silent and Faen allowed her anger to flourish. She stepped up onto the platform and knelt at her side. 

“The Inquisition is the only thing standing against this darkness. It’s the only thing that  _ can.  _ You think the Maker would fault you for admitting that?” she asked.

“What do you know of the Maker,  _ elf? _ ” the Mother burst out, “His Word is not for you!”

Faen straightened her spine and glared down at the woman as if she towered thousands of feet above her crumpled figure. “I know enough,” she growled from deep in her chest.

Tears formed in the Mother’s eyes. “You forced my hand,  _ Herald _ . We are afraid, all of us. Your mere existence suggests so much went wrong… and so much of it is perhaps our fault.” she wept.

“I applaud you. Many of your people would not admit to the shortcomings of the Chantry,” Faen stated. “There is one universal truth: the Chantry has failed, and it’s been that way for some time now.”

The Mother composed herself, her dreary eyes still stained red with tears when she was finally able to draw her eyes up to Faen’s face. “Answer me this: do you believe you were chosen?” she asked faintly.

Faen paused, calculating the effect of her words were she to utter them. The Mother seemed to be asking in sincerity and for her own sake, not that of the official Chantry stance. “No,” she finally said. “I do not believe in the Maker. Your God is cruel but not so cruel as to mock you by sending me.”

The Mother reached for Faen’s hand, which she reluctantly gave, and squeezed it tight. A sad smile was upon her lips. “That is more comforting than you know,” she said.

-+-

“You handled that beautifully,” Solas said at her side, his voice low. His shoulder brushed up against hers.

“Thank you,” she said. “Humans are...difficult to handle but most  _ can _ be handled.”

He could hear Varric and Cassandra bickering behind them but paid little mind to them. They always bickered. There were times when it was eventful and entertaining to watch their arguments unfold but now was not one of those times. Now he wanted to eat and leave the city. 

Solas opened his mouth to continue his praise of her handling of the tense situation but was interrupted when Faen slammed into a flamboyantly dressed man. His gasp was muffled by the full-faced mask he wore, as was his expression, but Solas did not need to see his face to know what lay beneath it. A quick assessment of the situation did not bode well at all. He had a fierce urge to shield Faen behind him and take the brunt of the noble’s soon-to-be onslaught of insults.

“Why you little knife-eared whore! Watch where you’re going or I’ll whip you until your skin falls off your back!” the noble roared.

Faen’s expression was apologetic, yet belied by mirth and a lack of care. Cassandra and Varric were quick to diffuse the situation, Faen hurling apologies at an astounding rate, and Solas holding himself back to spare Faen any more trouble. The tips of his ears burned with his anger and he wanted to smite the noble where he stood. But he lacked the power or the immunity to do so and remained silent. 

When the noble has his say and Varric had calmed him down, the noble stormed off and left the group as they were.

“You okay there, Herald?” Varric asked, hand at her back.

She nodded and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Quite. Let’s get something to eat.” 

Solas eyed her keenly. Something was off but he did not mention it.

-+-

The Sweetsong Brandy Parlour was a bustling place, one filled with masked faces and perfume. It was places like these that one could come to and easily forget the world was on the brink of destruction. Solas knew that that air wasn’t exclusive to the Breach, but occurred during most dire events.

They were sat rather quickly and with minimal glares. There were a few who looked on in awe at the assembled group. Two elves, a dwarf, and a human all heavily armored. Certainly an odd bunch, especially for the tavern. 

“How are we paying for this?” Varric asked, simultaneously worried and not worried about the situation.

Faen flashed a mischievous smile and produced a small velvet bag, dyed a rich blue and heavy like a ball of polished marble. She weighed it in her hand. Everyone’s eyes went wide.

“Where did you get that?” Cassandra exhaled. “Surely not from the Inquisition?”

“No, Seeker,” Solas said, a sly smile of his own on his lips, “The belligerent noble she ran into earlier? I suspect we owe him our dinner.” 

Cassandra gasped and Varric broke into a fit of laughter. “Damn, I didn’t even notice!” he exclaimed, “You’re wicked!”

Faen smiled triumphantly and pocketed the pouch. 

“I can’t believe this!” Cassandra hissed. “What if he finds out?”

“He won’t and when he does, we’ll be long gone. I do not intend to stay within the city beyond the night,” Faen replied.

Cassandra groaned and Varric slapped her back in play. “Relax, Seeker. Nobles like that usually don’t even notice when their wife has gone missing, let alone a few dozen sovereigns. He could stand to lose a few.” 

Solas turned to her. “You are quite bold,” he noted, smile still on his lips, “Where did you learn to have such quick, nimble fingers?”

“Braiding,” she said simply. “Teaches the fingers to be coordinated and dexterous. Being an elf amongst humans taught me to be discreet.”

“An elf amongst humans? But you are Dalish. You live amongst your people,” Solas countered.

“My clan had an interest in human affairs. More so than most clans. That interest is best served by spying,” she answered.

“Is that why you do not care if they insult you? Your people? Your ancestors?” Solas quipped, overcome by a sudden and violent venom.

She turned to him, obviously confused by his sudden change. “Pardon?” she asked.

“You let the humans call you  _ ‘knife-ear’  _ or  _ ‘rabbit.’  _ You do not fight back. You allow them to continue to deride you and the memory of my people,” he said. His anger was rising though he was beginning to admit to himself that it was not directed at her. She was merely a vessel for his rage at the situation.

Thankfully, Cassandra and Varric were too busy talking to each other about what they would order to focus on them. 

Faen tugged at the collar of his shirt, pulling him down to her level to further obfuscate their conversation. Her eyes burned with anger and… she was hurt. “ _ You  _ do not fight back. You expect me to?” she whispered. “You would ask of me what you are not willing to give. I do not throw fits when you sit in inaction.”

He frowned. “It is not me they are talking about!” he exclaimed, voice low enough to go unnoticed.

Faen released him and pulled back, her expression unreadable. “Have you ever been to a city this size?” she asked.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“A great deal,” she said, eyes rolling over him to size him up. “Explore the city as you like. But meet me at the Night Gate at sundown. I have something to show you.”

He eyed her carefully, unaware of what importance or what relevance this thing she had to show him had to the conversation. Eventually, his anger subsided but he kept his mouth shut regardless.

-+-

The Night Gates were nowhere near as grand or intricate as the Sun Gates. They were rather simple and lacked the facade of Emperor Kordillus Drakon’s rise to power, as told by the numerous plaques and books he’d read on the subject. Not that he cared. Still, despite the opulent show of wealth, the Night Gate was impressive and Solas could easily commend the designer for their efforts.

People of all sorts passed through the open gates, a number that quite surprised him as the sun had set and he expected people to be… elsewhere. The majority of those he passed wore masks varying in craftsmanship. He knew little of Orleasian ways and hadn’t a clue how to read the masks, though he could guess. He postulated that the people who wore the masks encrusted with precious stones were of the richer, higher born class. Those who wore simple mock-ups of those masks were no doubt lower born. Neither paid him any mind. 

His face was bare and he supposed that was all these people needed to see.

He eventually found Faen standing off to the side of the gates, examining her nails. When she spotted him, she offered a warm smile. 

“Enjoy your run of the city?” she asked.

“Yes. Val Royeaux is quite the city. The dreams this place contains...” Solas posed, returning her smile although his was much smaller. He was still in a mood.

“Good. I would like to take you to a… less traversed part of the city.” she said.

He quirked a brow in question. “Less traversed?” he asked, “In Val Royeaux?”

“Well, less traversed by the nobles. Where I plan on taking you is quite populated. I’m sure you can guess where.”

Solas could. He wasn’t certain but he had a feeling. If it was where he thought, he was dreading it.

They set off down the narrow streets of Val Royeaux, their passages lit through the use of magically powered lamps lining the walls of the buildings they passed. They traversed through side streets, those less populated by the common folk and thus, more easily navigated. Throughout their journey, Solas paid close attention to the architectural makeup of the city. Val Royeaux was certainly a marvel. But a marvel appropriated from the people who came before. His people. There were echoes of their techniques in everything. The arches held tell-tale signs of those once present in Arlathan. The stained-glass windows depicted scenes from the Andrastian faith and scenes from the history of Orlais but they didn’t require elven motifs to  _ be  _ elven. Even the pattern with which they laid the stones in the streets harkened back to Arlathan. It made his heart ache and burn at the same time.

After what felt like a hefty portion of time, Solas and Faen engaging in idle chats to pass the time, they arrived at a wall lacking in features. Faen stood before it, running her small hands over it in search of something. Her hands moved with familiarity, taking on a sense of precision that the uninitiated lacked. She found what she was looking for and pushed heavily. The stone budged and Solas felt his stomach turn.

He was not ready to see what lied beyond that wall. In a sense, he already knew what awaited him. He’d purposefully avoided alienages in his travels and there was a profound reason for that. Cities of all sizes had them and they were unavoidable. But Solas never indulged, never laid eyes on the living in an alienage. That was all soon to change, it would seem. 

Faen slipped through the opening in the wall and beckoned for him to follow. He did so slowly, walking through the entrance as if he were wading through quicksand. Once inside, he noted how the air felt different. Thicker and heavier than the lightly perfumed smell of the air outside the wall. Solas was not certain if it was a trick of the mind or an actual reality but he could  _ feel  _ the  _ weight  _ of anger and resentment weighing down upon him. 

“Come,” Faen called from up ahead.

He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. 

He followed her out into the street. It was near void of life and Solas’s palms began to sweat. There was the occasional pack of people, elves, traveling together, but they were all tightly wound together, their voices low and their eyes darting about madly like an injured animal. Faen fell back into his step, their shoulders touching but Solas was hardly aware of it. He felt dread. Nothing but a deep, pulsating dread.

The buildings lining the streets were deprived of the finery of the buildings outside the walls. Where the buildings were once painted soft blues and pinks and purples and reds, inside the walls the buildings were drab and dilapidated. The streets were not the finely paved roads of the rest of Val Royeaux. Patches of stone were horribly placed, if not uprooted entirely. Somewhere, a pack of dogs barked wildly and someone yelled at them. He avoided eye contact with those he passed, for they all stared at the newcomers in their armor. What would lie in their eyes? Dormancy? Domestication? Submission?

“Why are we here?” Solas asked lowly.

“You think it a show of weakness, of submission to not fight back against the insults,” Faen explained carefully. “We’re here to show you just how that is quite the opposite.”

They walked some more, the deeper they went into the heart of the alienage, the less savory the population. When they first entered, Solas assumed they were somewhat close to the entrance. Now it seemed as if they were nearing the heart of it. Instead of passing small packs of people dressed in normal wear, they now passed thicker bands of both men and women with sharp blades at their hip or strapped onto their backs. Faen took note of how he stared.

“I would not suggest staring,” she informed him. “They wear their blades in open opposition to the humans and they do not take kindly to being, as they perceive, sized up.”

“But I am an elf,” Solas countered.

“So?” she asked, “You refuse to consider yourself one of us but take up the title when it suits you.” The way in which she said it suggested it was merely an observation and not a jab or complaint. 

He felt the eyes of one man, as heavy and bulky with muscle as an elf could be, follow them as they strolled through.

“It is never certain when the humans will stumble in, drunk yet not so drunk as to not know what they’re doing, and exact some sort of revenge. Their reasons are forever changing but there’s always a certainty that it’s a fabrication.” she whispered in his ear, “The frequency changes with the seasons. It is an informal practice of the chevaliers to soak their swords in elven blood when their training is complete.”

Solas closed his eyes slowly and stewed on her words. The guilt he felt was beyond words, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface barely reigned in.

“Sometimes, a wealthy lord or lady will parade in and toss a single treat into the street. Children will swarm and fight over it like wild animals. They always leave feeling far more pleased with themselves and their status than before.”

Faen guided them to a great big tree at the heart of the alienage. The Vhenadahl. It was a concept that even his people had and it was a slight comfort to see it yet remained a steadfast part of the tradition. Its branches were full of emerald leaves, untouched by the hint of fall in the air, that reached towards the heavens like thousands of honoring hands. Its trunk was thicker than a dozen people and painted delicately with what appeared to be stylized trees at the base. The tree was immaculately cared for and the only thing in the alienage that didn’t ooze signs of human torment.

“That branch up there?” Faen called his attention to a particularly low-hanging branch. “Last winter, a small elven boy was found gutted and dangling from it. ‘Filth’ had been written in his blood.”

The muscles in Solas’s jaw clenched so tight that pain shot down into his shoulders. 

“When the  _ shems _ waltz in, it is not uncommon for them to rape and beat innocent women,  _ girls  _ beneath the canopy. Like the fucking savages that they are,” she continued without mercy, her voice festering with rage.

Solas could take no more. His shame, his guilt, his unending fury building to critical levels. “Enough,” he said, his voice bordering on a beg.

“No. Every time I come here, one of my contacts informs me of another missing elf. Carted off by the  _ shems,  _ done with as they pleased, and disposed of Mythal knows where.  _ We  _ do not get to say ‘enough’ and have the horrors end,” Faen spat. “There are far greater concerns than being called a knife-ear.”

Solas turned his back on the tree, wishing he could turn his back on  _ all  _ of the alienage. He wanted to be rid of this place immediately. “ _ I am sorry, _ ” he whispered. He meant it more than he had ever meant anything. He meant it in ways she couldn’t possibly fathom because he wouldn’t let her. Responsibility for this,  _ all  _ of this, fell directly on his shoulders. He felt grief. Grief for what had happened, grief for what was happening, grief for what was bound to happen. He felt grief for all that was lost and would be lost. 

These people suffered such horrors because of  _ him.  _ There was no escaping it now. When Solas was miles and miles away from them, submerged in the boundless wilderness and entrenched in the mystery and wonders of it, they were easy to forget. His people.  _ No,  _ he thought,  _ these are not my people. They are apiaries of what was and they are my fault.  _

The people would not have fallen so far if not for his hubris. The Blight was the product of the Hubris of a handful of curious and prideful magisters. The state of the elves was the product of his hubris. 

He felt Faen’s soft, small hand on his shoulder, her fingers lightly digging into his skin. The touch was grounding and much appreciated. Her warmth was… hypnotizing. Even in such a small way.

“ _ I  _ am sorry,” she said softly, “I shouldn’t have been so heartless as to bring you here. It was cruel. I cannot fault you for steering clear of all this.”

He turned to face her, his hand catching her much smaller one. He ran his thumb over her knuckles. The bone just beneath her skin was solid and absolute. The thought of those bones being crushed beneath the boot of some hateful human, of her skin be rent open and torn away by their blades…

“The elves have greater problems than slurs. My preoccupation with that has been foolish. I do not give your people enough credit,” he admitted.

She smiled sadly and looked down at their hands. “ _ My  _ people,” she echoed dejectedly. “Are you that ashamed of us that we aren’t even worth the recognition?”

He bowed his head and closed his eyes. Behind the lids, he saw  _ his  _ people, proud and noble with beauty beyond all comparison and words. He saw how openly they felt and how unafraid they were to open themselves, saw the images of fair-haired beauties taking him into their bodies with glee and abandon. Then he saw his people lust for  _ more.  _ He saw them chase the impossible. Saw them take things they had no right to take. 

Solas was growing fond of Faen. Fonder than he had of anyone in a very long time. He could not place his finger on it, did not want to, but it was there. That budding care and warmth. She was not of the Elvhen — not the people he knew at the end. She was showing herself to be something else entirely. 

“We should go.” Faen said, moving past that moment into the next, “It is getting late and I do not like the look of things.”

Solas looked around, trying to find what exactly it was that bothered him. Instead of seeing with his eyes the looming danger, he felt it press down upon his skin. The elves with blades at their hips gazed at them with questioning, cautious eyes, but there was no malice. At least, not any that he could detect. He knew little of how the elves of the city acted amongst themselves. Was there solidarity? Recognition of the plight of your fellow elf? Or was it everyone for themselves? Would these elves jump them or leave them be? 

“It is not  _ them  _ I’m worried about,” Faen whispered in his ear.

It was then he understood. “Tonight?” he breathed.

She shrugged and looked around. “I do not know and I do not want to. It’s a cold night, so maybe the  _ shems  _ are cooped up inside by the fire, sipping on spirits. But the spirits might toy with their head. The hatred and disgust is always there, but it’s the drink that gives them the strength to do what they do.” she said and tugged on his sleeve. He followed her to the group of elves gathered beneath the vhenadahl. 

“Stay safe, friends. This night does not bode well.” Faen said to the group.

“As to you, sister.” one of them said.

Another pointed to the moon in the sky. The moon was full and milky, bright in the night sky. Faint rings encircled it. “The moon says blood is to be shed on this night.” an older elf said. He was missing several teeth. “Be wary, child.”

Faen looked to Solas and nodded. They were off soon after, Faen taking the charge as she knew the way back. For some reason, one he couldn’t find it in him to complain about, she would not let his hand go. Perhaps she was unnerved and needed to be reminded that she was not alone. Or perhaps she liked the feel of his hand in hers. Either way, she would not let go. 

The impending sense of doom grew heavier the further they walked. The streets were no longer populated at all and storefronts that had once been opened and aglow were now shuttered tightly and dead. 

“We shouldn’t have come here,” Faen muttered, “Something is wrong. Something is ve-”

Solas silenced her quickly by pulling her into a deserted alleyway, maneuvering her so she was pinned between him and the wall. He pressed his body up against hers firmly and shielded her mouth with his hand. He lifted the index finger of his free hand to his lips to quiet her bafflement. 

Her eyes were wide and in them swam panic and fear. But there was also trust — trust that he would not harm her. And he didn’t. Seconds after he’d pulled her into the alleyway, they both heard what had caused him to move.

Guards, humans by the sound of their heavy armor and thick accents, had emerged from a house just behind them and were laughing maniacally amongst themselves. 

“What did you expect, Pierre?” one of them hollered, “They’re elves. Of course they have nothing good to take.”

Solas released the seal of his hand over her mouth and began to slowly move further into the alleyway. The guards were nearing the entrance to where they hid and Solas tried desperately to maintain a quiet but silent pace. They were nearly out of sight when his foot caught on a disposed crate and he lost his footing. Faen caught him before he could fall but he would have rather fallen than have to face those guards. The noise was too loud, too clear, too certain to be anything other than someone trying to hide. 

The guards fell upon them almost instantly. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translations:  
arlise - hearth, place of hearth  
shem - human


	4. Blood in the Streets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really proud of this chapter but...meh. I'm sick of working on it and I'm ready to move on. Very unprofessional but whatever. Do enjoy! Also do expect a somewhat shorter chapter after this one!

They did not round the corner with their swords in hand and eager to hack away at them as Faen had feared. They  _ did _ round it with urgency, their moment or whatever it was being rudely interrupted by Solas stumbling. Their faces were marred by deep shadows, but even through that darkness, Faen could see the glint of cruelty in their eyes.

There were three of them, all broad shouldered and tall. Solas, who was quite tall and well muscled himself, was dwarfed by them in every respect.

“What do we have here?” one of the guards rumbled, his voice dripping with ill-intent. 

Faen was well aware of the practice of human guards perusing the alienage streets at night. Whispers would spread amongst their numbers, usually their beginnings came from reliable humans who sympathized with the elves, telling of talk in the barracks where the guards mentioned “strolls,'' as they called it, through the alienage streets. These whispers would grow in volume to firm voices warning all they passed of a violent intrusion from the humans that night. On the night of the “stroll,” when the sun went down, the streets would empty, save for the particularly feral groups among the elves who hid in darkness and ambushed the guards should they saunter into their territory. This mitigated the brunt of unsavory interactions. But the guards would often unexpectedly barge into homes and did as they pleased. 

The guards had grown accustomed to this practice of vacating the streets. They expected little in the way of resistance and were especially nasty when they fell upon anyone outside their home.

“We are with the Inquisition,” Faen tried desperately to diffuse the situation. It would do no good to start a fight.

“‘ _ We are with the Inquisition,’ _ ” one of the soldiers mocked, his words followed by a bark of laughter, “Even if that were true, you think we care?”

Solas clenched his fists at his side. There was great strain on his features. Just moments ago, she’d been encased by his warmth and smell. The musk of a man and the trace of sandalwood was her world at the time. She shamefully recalled her blush at the proximity and touch. But now there was no lingering sweetness of the moment. Her palms went sweaty and her mouth went dry.

“I would think you should care about the Herald of Andraste. I will gladly show you the mark.” she continued, removing her glove to show them the mark. She would gladly use her title if it allowed them to walk away freely.

The attempt fell flat.

“And I would gladly show you the birthmark on my cock,” another guard said with great cruel mirth. He began to unlace his trousers. This was enough for Solas.

He moved before Faen, shielding her with his body, his staff in hand. “Enough of this. We are agents of the Inquisition and you will let us go. We have done nothing wrong.” Solas stated firmly, his voice taking on a dark and threatening tone.

The guard unlacing his breeches stopped and turned to his comrades. Faen could practically  _ hear  _ the nasty smile splitting his face.

“Will we now, knife-ear?” one of them, the tallest and bulkiest, asked.

A shorter one, though not by much, and the one who had the nastiest look about him began to swing a necklace of some sorts around a fat finger. He stepped forward into a sliver of light cast from a candle in a window. His plate of armor had been smeared with something dark and it had stained his breeches. She knew what it was.

“I don’t like your tone.” he spat.

Solas took a few steps forward to meet him. “And I don’t like yours,” he growled. 

“This your little whore?” the guard asked, pointing to Faen. 

Solas said nothing. His back was to her and his expression was a mystery. She imagined him glaring daggers at the guard. The guard’s boots clicked crisply on the disheveled stones as he walked over to Faen. Recoiling from him was too risky — he might interpret the movement as some sort of threat or affront to his honor. So she stayed put and followed him with her eyes. He held the necklace in his right hand, his left palming the hilt of his sword.

“She’s an ugly one. You have poor taste,  _ monsieur.”  _ he stated. His intention was no doubt to crawl under her skin, maybe hurt her feelings, but it didn’t work at all. 

“Certainly not ugly enough to fuck. But ugly nonetheless.” he continued. 

Solas had now turned to watch him and Faen saw the intense bulge of his temporalis muscle at his temple. 

“Is that what you want?” Faen growled, slyly creeping her hand up her side to the blade at her hip.

“Elven cunt is unlike any other.” the guard said, his little chuckle a sickening note, “Your kind love to hit and squirm. Beg for mercy. Just how I like it.”

“How base and unsurprising.” Faen spat, “ _ Your _ kind are just like dogs. Born a Ferelden, monsieur?”

The guard roared and jumped on her, his weight quickly overcoming her and his hands gripping her throat like a vice. He threw her to the ground, her head hitting the stone so hard her vision went black for a moment. He  _ squeezed  _ and her airway constricted.

She was vaguely aware of the sound of Solas’s staff whipping through the air, the sounds of lightning bolts being thrown around with as much ease as one throws loaves of bread. She could not see him, for the guard’s bulk blocked much of her vision and the hands squeezing the life out of her were quite the preoccupation. She struggled as best she could, but the guard sat atop her and his weight was monstrous and further restricted her breathing. The hand at her hip had been pinned her by his legs. Something hard cut into her throat and it was so uncomfortable and significant that it was distinguishable from the pressure of his hands around her airway. She gasped in vain, trying her hardest to fill her screaming lungs but to no avail. Her efforts caused him to squeeze tighter. Soon he would crush the column of her throat entirely. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and one even fell. Her legs kicked beneath him, trying to knock him from her.

The guard growled in her face and eventually the growl morphed into that sickening laugh.

She looked into his eyes and saw herself gazing back at her. Behind the image of herself was nothing. Just a bottomless pit of...nothing. She was aware of her other hand clawing at his hands but she stopped. She ceased her struggling and simply stared up at him.

The world slowed. She was no longer aware of the intense pressure around her throat, the horrible wailing of her lungs, or the broken sternum her sat upon. She felt nothing. Heard nothing. Only saw. She saw with eyes she had never seen through before. Colors she’d never seen danced across her vision. 

She saw the girl, wide-eyed and frazzled, in his eyes peering back at her with as much intensity as she stared at her.

_ Are you scared?  _ The girl mouthed.

Faen choked.  _ Are you? _

_ I am. _

_ I am not.  _

There was a sudden violent burst of something wet across her chin and mouth. The man above her gurgled and slumped off of her, his body hitting the ground with an audible thud. Solas was at her side in seconds, raising her from the ground and pulling her into his arms. She gasped for air, her lungs rejecting the notion at first. They spasmed in her chest, eager for air but unable to reckon themselves with the reality of them actually taking air in. 

Solas called her name several times but it was as if he were speaking through water. She felt his fingers grace her throat but she sluggishly brushed them away, not able to take the feeling of anything but her own hands at her throat. With all her wild coughing and sputtering, whatever warm liquid had splashed onto her face had somehow been ingested. The distinct coppery taste was unmistakably blood. 

She felt as if she might wretch but she held it in. Her body was now growing accustomed to the intake of air and was no longer fighting against it. But her chest  _ ached  _ and not in any feelings sort of way. Her head felt as if it had been split open with a pick and she felt the back of her hair was damp.

Solas was still frantically fussing over her, his hands roaming all over her face and shoulders. Eventually he pulled her into a tight embrace and smoothed down her hair. He whispered to her how it was alright and how she was safe. 

She did not weep as was expected. Not for what the guard had done. Not for how she gave in and relented to his will. She would have let him squeeze the life from her if Solas had not interrupted.

Shame flooded her. She would have let a filthy  _ shem  _ be her undoing.

When she calmed and he breathing regulated, Solas released her. In his eyes swam worry. 

“Are you alright?” he asked gravely.

She wiped at her eyes. “Yes.” she whispered hoarsely. She looked at the scene around them.

Solas reached out a hand to her throat, no doubt intending to heal the marks already blossoming there, but she grabbed his wrist. “No,” she said.

“What?”

“We need it.” she said, ‘it’ implying her mark, “Evidence of the attack.”

He pulled back his hand and followed her eyes to the dead guards. Dread simmered in his eyes.

But there was no time for that. Faen moved quickly. “How did you kill them?” she asked.

“They fought well for simple city guards. It was only through the use of some heavy lightning magic that I was able to stop them. The one you dealt with would only stop with a blow to the head.” he said.

That meant no external wounds. She produced her dagger and got to work. She wedged her knife up under one of the guard’s armpits, making sure to pierce the heart with her angle. The other, she sliced open his femoral artery. For the last one, the guard who had strangled her, she dug her blade into the softest part of his throat. The entire alleyway stank of hot copper.

Solas stared at her in horror. “What are you doing?” he breathed.

“Saving  _ you.  _ You saved my life, it’s only fair I save yours.” she said.

Solas did not understand. 

“You are an apostate. An  _ elven  _ apostate, responsible for the deaths of three city guard. You do not have the mark to protect you from persecution.” she explained, regaining the majority of her voice, “The wounds I’ve sustained act as proof of an attack. It’s not much and is far from foolproof but…”

“I will not let you take the blame for this. You were entirely innocent.”

“Solas,” she said firmly, “No. I  _ need  _ you. This will undoubtedly take you away from your work with me. I promised you I would do everything in my power to protect you and I’m doing it. Trust me.”

“And this will take you away from the Inquisition! Be rational, Faen! This will be your undoing.”

“ _ Trust me. _ ”

His fight, if one could even call it that, subsided and he watched with disapproval on his face. Men seldom knew what was good for them like a woman did.

As she finished up adjusting the scene to fit her story, she felt the burn of a cut on the side of her throat, the dampness of blood in her collar. She pressed a hand to her throat, wincing when the pressure irritated the marks on her throat and the cut. Blood coated her gloved fingers. Whatever that man had in his hand as he strangled her had made cut. Superficial, nothing as deep as to cause worry, but it still burned. The fabric of her collar was bound to torture the wound but even so, she refused to have it healed. All her marks and injuries would go on to prove the necessity of the killings. 

A glint of something caught her eye. She moved over to the man who moments ago sat atop her, crushing her, and toed his hand with her boot.

A necklace was wound around his meaty fist, catching the light from the candle in the window and winking slyly. She untangled it from his fist and inspected it. She was certain that the object cutting into her skin had been this.

It was a simple necklace, one that favored sentimentality over opulence. It was comprised of a silver chain and a small pearl. The pearl would’ve cost quite a great deal — more than she was certain an elf of the alienage could afford. Despite the worth of it, it was still rather plain and inoffensive. Unworthy of catching the eye. But that didn’t matter, did it?  _ Shems  _ took things because they meant something, because they _ could.  _ Not because they had any particular want or need. 

She pocketed the necklace and stood to face Solas. “We’re done here.” she said and squeezed past him. He followed at her heel.

“How will the authorities know it was us?” Solas questioned.

“ _ Me.  _ You mean  _ me.  _ I plan on telling them. I’m sure these men said where they were going. If things went sour, I’m sure they’d want the elves held accountable. To spare senseless beatings and raids, I have to say it was me.” she informed him.

“An elf all the same.” 

She frowned and turned a corner. “Yes…” she muttered, “This was my fault. I brought you here, I mouthed off.”

She felt his hand on her shoulder stop her. “They were never going to let us leave.” Solas told her softly, “They would’ve tried to kill us with or without the aid of your mouth.”

She supposed he was right. It did little to diminish the guilt.

After what felt like centuries of steering through endless dark alleys, pain pulsating throughout her entire being like an incessant and angry heartbeat, she found the wall through which they entered. She located the spot that required a push to open and sighed when they exited the stiflingly thick and oppressive atmosphere of the alienage and stepped into the light and perfumed air of the rest of the city. The streets were far more populated and there wasn’t a lingering fear for her life. Yet. 

Faen became aware of her appearance, the spatter of blood on her chin and nose, her tousled hair, and bloody blades, when a woman they passed had pointed and gasped. She wiped her gloved hand across her face, hoping to wipe away any trace on the blood on her face, but the effort proved fruitless. The blood had dried and refused to budge. 

Solas walked at her side, acting as a barrier or sorts from the world. But the people still looked at her in horror and confusion. 

“We’re going back to the inn. No arguing with me.” Solas told her sternly.

She  _ would  _ have defied him, insisted that the authority in Val Royeaux needed to know  _ tonight,  _ but...her body ached with the memory of what had just transpired. Her lungs were still raw and it was difficult to draw in breath due to what was surely a broken sternum. Her head throbbed wildly, the world tilted this way and that. 

A bed would be nice. To be held in Solas’s arms the entire night, encased in his mind-numbing warmth, pleasant smell, and most importantly, his  _ protection  _ would be even better. But she scolded herself. 

_ Do not think like that. _

She could not stop it.

It was no secret that she enjoyed the older man’s company. It came with a great deal of benefits: the freedom to ask whatever she wanted in regards to magic, stimulating conversation on various matters, that voice, the ease and comfort of another elf. Solas was not like any other elf she’d encountered. He cared little for the elves at all. But that did not make him any less of an elf or a comfort. 

Somehow, without her knowledge, they were back at the inn and Solas was snapping his fingers before her face. 

“Faen?” he called.

She blinked back to reality, the swirl of pain and her thoughts of his warmth clearing momentarily. “Huh?” she grunted.

Cassandra and Varric were present and she was aware they were in the tavern below where they slept. Everyone gazed at with intense concern. 

“I should’ve anticipated this. You likely have a concussion.” Solas said, his voice muffled. 

“And you said she was attacked?” Cassandra asked.

Solas responded but Faen didn’t catch it.

“Do you realize what your stunt will cost the Inquisition?” Cassandra barked and Varric pushed her aside, his features screwed up in anger. 

“Are you serious? She’s attacked, strangled, and concussed and you’re concerned about our social standing?” Varric yelled, causing Faen to shy away slightly, “Look at her! Maker’s breath, she looks like shit!”

“It’s not just our social standing, it’s our standing in every right! We’ve not even had our first steps and already we’ll be embroiled in controversy and distrust!”

Cassandra and Varric bickered quite loudly for a time, which Solas took advantage of to get closer to her. “Please, Faeneth. Let me heal your head wound.” he insisted gently, “You are no use to us dead.”

She chuckled darkly. First her burn and infection, now this? “You want to use me, Solas?” she wondered.

She allowed him to heal the back of her head. She hissed as he parted her dark hair to gain better access to her wound. 

“Sorry,” he apologized, his fingers lightly prodding the area, “And yes and no. I want to use you to seal the Breach. But it is not the selfish and careless use you imply.”

She whimpered when his fingers touched a particular area. “Stop fucking with it and  _ heal it.  _ I feel like I’m going to be sick.” she warned him.

Moments later she felt an odd and confusing mixture of warmth and chill pouring into the gash at the back of her head. She felt the flesh mend, the fibers stitching themselves back together to create a whole. The sharp pain subsided but her head still pounded, however lightly. The world no longer felt as if it were slowly warping around her. 

“Thank you,” she breathed in a sigh. 

Solas eased her up from where she sat (which she wasn’t even aware she was sitting in the first place) and broke through Cassandra and Varric’s tiff. That effectively ended that. They both stared at the pair as they walked off up the stairs. 

“Vain,” Varric called to the Innkeep, “Fetch her some water for a bath! Looks like she could use it.”

Faen turned and smiled at the dwarf. “How kind,” she mused and he smiled in return.

She liked the dwarf. He was...genuine in ways that few were. And cared more than anyone she’d ever met. 

Solas walked her to her room and stopped before the door. 

“I am...sorry. About tonight.” Solas said, “About what I said at dinner, about…”

Faen grabbed his hand. The touch was meant to soothe him, make him see that he had nothing to apologize for, but it was as if her hand were a hot rod of fire meant to brand him. He jerked his hands back and looked away from her. She was not one to push interactions such as these, for she herself was often weary of them. 

“Do not apologize.” she told him instead, “It is clear you have not been around your people very much. There is no shame in that. Besides...you’re right. In a way. We should not let the  _ shems  _ get away with calling us names. Submission to the names leads to submission in other ways. It’s just a stepping stone.”

Solas returned her look and she saw in his eyes something akin to regret. 

“Goodnight, Faeneth.” he said and turned but before he could…

“Solas.” she called and he stopped, “I did not thank you for saving my life. You’ve saved my life so many times. First at the Conclave, now this. It seems I owe many people my life. But I owe you the most.”

His smile was sad and full of an impossible burden. “You are trouble,” he said, “There are many things working against you, many things that you poke your nose into, but you will have me at your side for the time being.”

She returned his smile. “I’m quite fond of you,” she said absently then, after realizing what she said, she turned a deep shade of red, “I mean...well. Yes. I’m fond of you. I would hope you stay for quite some time.”

Solas’s eyes went big. She would commit heinous acts to gain insight into what he was thinking at present. She hadn’t the ability so she could only guess and none of it was good. Just when she thought she’d severed something nice, he chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. 

“I’m fond of you as well.” he informs her, the tips of his ears going red, “I did not expect to find a friend in all this chaos. It is nice.”

Her ears heard one thing but her heart heard another. The muscle seemed to swell in her chest, disturbing the rocky peace her lungs had settled on, and caused every appendage to flood with warmth. She was certain there were stars in her eyes. She was never too certain on where she stood with Solas. He was...polite and reserved, neither of which was a bad thing, but they were the dominating factors and made it difficult to evaluate where she stood. Her position and title made it all the more difficult for her to ascertain the relationship he had with her. She knew little about him but there was one thing she was certain on — Solas would not tell her a falsehood to keep up appearances. He would not say something he did not mean. In all their dealings and in all the dealings she’d seen him conduct, he had always been horribly, though still polite, blunt and was not afraid to state the controversial. If a conversation bored him, he would civilly draw it to a close and move on. If a conversation excited him, he would say as much.

“Ah. Yes…” she bowed her head shyly and  _ giggled  _ like a sodding child, “Goodnight.”

She practically slammed the door in his face.

-+-

The water was at the perfect temperature — scalding hot but not so hot as to melt off the skin. She had lazily traced a fire rune onto the side of the wooden tub, her fingers eerily aware of the intricacies of the rune and able to draw it so that it kept the bath at the perfect temperature without much thought. Her actions had confused her but she recalled Solas saying that people so magically inclined harbored some sort of innate knowledge on magic. Not a comprehensive or complete knowledge, but enough of an idea that there were things she just  _ knew.  _ Like breathing.

The heat of the bath seeped into her aching muscles, soothing them and eating away at the tension built up in her hips and shoulders. She felt as if she were melting into the bath. Her skin and muscles felt as if they had been slipped off like a coat. Her bones felt weightless and airy. She ceased to exist in that moment and it was glorious. Her mind was deliciously empty and her body was numb.

It didn’t last long. 

On a particular whisp of glorious thoughtlessness, she felt the ghost of a memory creep up on her. Its hands, behemoth and rough like scales, wound themselves around her throat. It did not squeeze. It simply held. The delicate hint of pressure was simultaneously maddening and comforting. 

She did not fight the force. She was curious and a part of her knew what this was. It was no real threat, no silent intruder with the intention to kill her or worse. She was remembering, though not fully. 

The feel of his hands around her throat was the sole presence of the memory, no tight pressure, no slice of the necklace’s chain into her skin. Of course, recalling them lent them to presence, but they lacked manifestation and that was what mattered.

She opened her eyes and the feeling went away.

Her hand snaked its way up her body to grasp at her throat, chasing the feeling of the hands of the memory. Her hands lacked the grace and lightness that bordered on nonexistence that the memory had. Instead, her hands, light as they were, only agitated the bruises forming there and she frowned. 

Her gaze flitted over to the necklace sitting on the table at her side. In the light, it was even simpler than she thought. The pearl, which she once imagined to be this pristine and immaculate thing, was rather dull and dirty. The chain was in need of polishing and could stand to be replaced entirely.

Curiosity blossomed as she wondered how the guard had come into it. That curiosity soon turned to anger as she knew it was no great mystery as to how he had it. He stole it. Tore it from some elven woman’s neck and sneered as the tears gathered in her eyes. Or perhaps the woman would glare back at him, her eyes stormy with hate and defiance. It was likely some family heirloom, a little piece of finery handed down through the generations and worn proudly. 

And now it was hers. 

Was this guilt she felt ringing hollow in her chest? Or was it something more akin to numbing sadness?

All the giddiness of her moment with Solas had dissipated and now she sat alone in the bath, caught somewhere between existing as a raw nerve ending and a numb, empty husk of a person.

-+-

Her dreams that night were not a torment for once. They were far from pleasant, but they did not leave her shaken and convinced of another presence in the room. In fact, she did not sink herself into a deep enough  _ to  _ dream of much besides the thoughts she willingly chased in her head. She flitted just on the precipice of sleep, wanting so dearly to take the plunge and allow herself to let go, but her mind was too preoccupied. Her body was begging for real sleep, not this offensive imitation of sleep that kept her body aware and wired. It hungered for something restful and restorative. 

After chasing sleep for what felt like years, she gave up and her eyes slowly drew open. She traded in the darkness behind her lids for the darkness of the room. Within a matter of seconds, her eyes adjusted and she could make out vague shapes. The longer she stared, the sharper the shapes became. The emptied tub in the middle of the floor, the pile of clothes she’d thrown over the chair at the desk. A’len had told her many years ago that the elves had been gifted with eyes that cut through the thickest of darknesses. No other race could see so beautifully through the darkness as the elves. Even so, her sight was not perfect and she required more detail than what she had at present. She pulled herself up, her body feeling like an impossible weight pulling her down, and called forth a flame from the Fade to light the candle at her bedside.

Faen heard Gitta meow, the sound a gentle question. She stroked the cat, whispering to her softly to return to sleep. All her efforts granted her was a fierce roll of purr from the cat and she sighed. 

“You have every reason to sleep,” Faen said, “But you won’t.”

Gitta gave a loud meow in response. Faen quickly shushed her in fear of waking the others. But the cat still purred and purred loudly. A carefully placed scratch behind the ears had sealed the cat’s eyes shut in pleasure. 

Faen suddenly stopped. She was caught between places again. 

Gitta opened her eyes slowly, the slits of her pupils growing to consume the vibrant green of her eyes. In them, Faen saw a familiar face staring back at her. Even in the dim light of the candle, Faen could see the face. The large, tired eyes. The disheveled hair. The hollow, ghoulish cheeks. But its mouth was not her own. It was shaping words she did not catch, words just at the tip of her tongue. 

The ghostly remnants of the hands returned, this time their grip was strong and unmistakable. The pressure offered a clarity like no other. The words the reflection spoke resounded in her ears like a bellowing echo in a valley.

_ Go. _

And she knew.

-+-

Faen trembled. Fall rolled in neatly into the city but the chill wind was hardly the reason she trembled. Every elf who’d ever visited a city, more so for a city of this magnitude, knew that such a place as this was something to adamantly avoid. Nothing good ever came from an elf walking into the seat of human authority in a city.

The guard’s barracks gently clutched some semblance of Val Royeaux architecture. Like the buildings surrounding it, it was brightly painted and embossed in gold up at the pointed tips of the spires. But whereas the rest of the city had duller, more regal spires, the spires and general shape of the barracks took on a distinct note of harshness that made her stomach knot.

It was a wolf frothing at the mouth all dolled up and presented as a harmless and naive sheep. 

It was foolish to be here. The streets of Val Royeaux were occupied only by those who enjoyed a good, stout evening of drinking. Most were drunk and those that were not acted as guides for those that were. Either way, the streets were sparse. Most places were dark and empty or dark and filled with sleeping bodies. She should’ve been back at the inn, asleep and dreaming. 

The barracks never slept. It was always alive. Guards were on constant rotation and someone was always awake to deal with affairs, no matter the hour. By her guess, it was well past midnight. 

She was forced here, forced to stand before its doors alone and speak her truth. It was pushing past those doors that was the hard part. Her justifications were not fool-proof and neither was her protection. She had one thing on her side and it was that Solas was not here to muddy things up, as she suspected he would. 

Dealing with humans was always a tiresome and convoluted task. Their cultures were vast and seemingly infinite, their mannerisms were far different than that of the Dalish, and their beliefs seemed to be based off of whim. Not to imply the Dalish were a homogenous people — they were not — but they weren’t so infinite and varied as to lack any similarities amongst themselves. Despite how complex a task it was, Faen was somewhat good at it. When she wanted to be. Which was rare. Very rare. Her work typically required no interaction outside of keeping her head down and pretending not to notice. 

She would have to put her skills to use for once. 

With a heavy sigh, Faen placed her hands on the polished doors and cringed as she felt how cold it was. This was the last thing she wanted to.

Before she could force them open, something small and warm weaved its way through her feet. She was startled at first, evaluating whether she should jump back or push forth. But a scratchy meow eased her. 

Gitta. She should’ve guessed. The cat was an enigma, even after nearly eighteen years together. She knew better than to worry about the creature, knew better than to question  _ how in the name of Ghilan’nain did she  _ get  _ here  _ or  _ what sorcery is it that allowed her to live.  _ She had long since given up on the puzzling nature of the cat, instead deciding to go with it and appreciate the odd moments and places where she showed up. Gitta’s timing, however, was most questionable. She appeared at either the absolute worst moments or the absolute best, no in between.

Now was one of the worst. 

Faen kicked at her lightly, trying to force the cat to scurry off and hopefully head back to the inn. She cursed herself for that hope, knowing that once she thought it, the cat would never do it. Gitta dodged her efforts with ease, somehow managing to seamlessly escape and plant herself a mere few feet away. The cat was clearly pleased with herself, as she sat proudly and purred loudly.

She tried to shoo the cat away, her arms swinging recklessly like she were possessed by some mad spirit. Much to her relief, the cat got up, but the relief ended there. Gitta moved a foot or so and sat back down. Faen was about to resort to yelling when a voice halted her.

“Can I help you?” a heavily accented voice asked her.

She froze. 

“I am speaking to you,” the voice continued, aggravation clear in their tone. 

Faen turned to the direction of the voice. It belonged to a heavily armored man, his sword menacing and sharp at his hip. He stood at the bottom of the steps with a complement of three other men as equally weighed down by armor. She swallowed thickly. 

“I have business with the guard.” she said, voice small. 

The man who spoke climbed a single step. “Pertaining to?” he asked.

“Your guards in patrolling the alienage.”

Behind his heavy mask, she could hear him heave a heavy sigh. The sigh was an indication of many things and nothing at all. “I will tell you what I tell  _ all  _ the elves who complain: these ‘patrols’ you speak of are not sanctioned by the official city guard and are-” he began but the longer he spoke, the more akin to screeching his voice became.

“I killed them.” Faen blurted, no longer able to withstand his voice. It was not how she would have liked to explain it, as it was lacking in eloquence and the cushioning required for these sorts of things but it did the trick. The cat was already out of the bag and there was no hope of ever putting it back in.

The man visibly jumped, as did the guards behind him. They exchanged glances Faen could not read. There was obvious confusion amongst them.

“You...what?” the man asked.

“They attacked me. I defended myself.” 

“And your act of defense entails the killing of innocent men?”

Her palms grew sweaty as his tone shifted from disbelief to barely contained rage. She nervously licked her lips to fend off the dryness of them.

“Innocent?” she asked, her voice growing in strength and sound, “Like I said,  _ they _ attacked  _ me.  _ I have the marks to prove it.” 

She pulled aside her collar to show the bruises on her throat and the cut on the side. 

The guard cared little. His demeanor changed completely, his once annoyed but careless air replaced with the tension of action. Faen noticed how his hand gripped his sword tightly. He closed the distance between them slowly, approaching her with so much caution that one would’ve thought she was massively unstable and violent. She hadn’t even come armed.  _ Stupid girl. _

“Marks prove nothing.” he spat.

“Marks prove everything!” she exclaimed, “I need not prove myself. You can deny the attack all you’d like, it does not change reality.”

The guard snatched her up by the arm and pulled her against him. This close, she could see the color of his eyes. They were green and tired, filled not with malice but obligation. 

“We shall see.” he said and dragged her inside. The men flanking him followed and their footfalls echoed loudly throughout the halls they passed through. The pace they traveled was difficult to maintain. She could hardly keep up. At one point, she thought the man was going to have to drag her behind him.

But it mattered little. Her world consisted of the powerful pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. She could focus on little else besides that. Fear and regret swelled in her life a sprained ankle and she cursed herself for being so fucking  _ stupid. _

Her confidence had been shaky from the start, but now it was trembling so hard it was creating deep cracks that were close to crumbling the entire thing. There was a strong sense that she would never leave the confines of these walls. That she would walk these halls forever.

_ Remember why you’re doing this. _

Yes. As much as she dreaded what was to come, wanted to dig her heels in deep and fight against the powers that be with such animal ferocity that the ages to come would say she was ferally raised, she  _ had  _ to do this. Her people, despite their protests that the Dalish and city elves were different, would suffer if she did not take the blame. There were good humans that were sympathetic and just to the elves. Some were even among the higher forces. But they could do little when the public quite vehemently demanded the elves pay. Faen could only imagine the ways in which they would pay.

That is why she endured. 

After what felt like an eternity, they entered an office with a simply dressed man behind a comically large desk. His attention was on the papers in his words and it was so intense that he didn’t even look up.

“Monsieur Cauncelt.” the guard holding her called after it was evident the man was never going to look up.

Monsieur Cauncelt looked up from his papers, his eyes sharp. His aquiline features were set in agitation.

“Arnard.” he said, his voice deep and powerful.

Arnard cleared his throat and shoved Faen to the center. “This elf claims to have killed the three men who went into the alienage this evening.” he said. Faen noted the timid note in his voice.

Cauncelt shifted in his chair and set the papers down. His face remained hard. “A most serious charge.” he said.

“Not a charge, monsieur.” Faen said, her voice cracking slightly, “A confession. I came here of my own free will to confess.”

He scoffed. “You weren’t driven by any guilty conscious, that’s for certain.” he said, “Your people rarely have one, guilty or not.”

She inhaled slowly to calm herself. His words did not bother her in the slightest but her head was elsewhere, lost in fear. “I do not regret what I did. Your men attacked me. Viciously. I defended myself. I came here to spare my brethren punishment for my actions.” she said.

Cauncelt quirked a brow. “You plead that your actions were a matter of defense?” he asked.

“She said she has the marks to prove it.” Arnard informed him.

Cauncelt stood, his chair moaning as he moved. The click of his boots on the marble floor was dreadful. He stood before her, his height causing him to tower over her menacingly. She maintained her composure.

“Show them to us.” he commanded.

Faen pulled aside her collar to reveal the marks. 

“I had business in the alienage. When I realized your men were patrolling the streets, I hid. They found me and after an exchange, one of them jumped me, threw me to the ground, and began to strangle me.” she said.

“You hid? Up to no good,  _ madame? _ ” the Monsieur asked skeptically.

She frowned. “Your men have quite the reputation.” she said.

Cauncelt mimicked her frown. One of the guards who had remained silent up until then spoke up. “It’s worth mentioning that the patrols through the alienage are not sanctioned. We receive regular complaints of their...behavior.” he said. Cauncelt threw him a nasty glare and the guard backed down.

“How does a  _ small  _ elven woman, pinned to the ground, and in the process of being strangled, come to kill three much larger, well armored and armed men of the guard?” Cauncelt questioned.

She had a snarky remark but held her tongue. “I am not defenseless. We among the Dalish are trained to fight for our lives.” she said, “It is amazing the feats were are capable of when our lives are threatened.”

Cauncelt scowled. “Say this was a matter of defense,” he began, crossing his thick arms before his broad chest, “Why did you kill them? Surely you could’ve wounded the offender and escaped. Why is this not murder?”

“You’ve heard the complaints. Your men taunt and torture the elven people of this city. You think they would have let me go? That they would not pursue me and kill me? Maim me? Use me?” she said, voice bordering on anger, “Your men are dead because they gave me no choice. Perhaps train them better, do not take on the hot-headed racists and the elves won’t have to resort to such matters to survive.”

Her words clearly angered Cauncelt. She thought he was about to raise his hand and strike her  _ hard,  _ but something held him back. Did he falter under the watchful eye of his men? Was his conscious demanding an alternate course of action? 

“I do not believe you.” he finally said grimly. 

Her heart felt as if it were dropped from a mountain and were crushed upon impact. Panic set in. Her heart began to race, her eyes darted around wildly, seeking  _ something, anything  _ that could get her out of here. She needn’t look for long.

“With all due respect, monsieur,” the guard who had spoke up previously began, “It does not matter what you believe. You are the head of the guard but not the one responsible for sentencing and punishment. Besides, Pierre, Gustav, and Renold are notorious for being...merciless and cruel. They were not sanctioned to patrol the alienage and as such, were technically not on duty.”

Cauncelt’s eyes burned with rage and Faen resisted the urge to shrink back. “Did I hear correctly? A subordinate  _ mouthing  _ off to his superior?” he breathed. 

Arnard cleared his throat once more. “Cotrie has a point. It is of little consequence what you believe  _ and  _ it is very likely she  _ was _ fending for her life. Those three likely gave her no choice.” he said.

Faen’s jaw nearly hit the floor. There were decent humans in the world, this she knew, but this...this defense of theirs was on another level. She doubted even elves would stick their necks out so far like this, even in the face of the truth. 

Cauncelt’s face puckered as if he had smelled something horrendous and was holding back something giant in magnitude. His composure seemed to be a delicately maintained thing. “Because they happened to be men with strongly held convictions, we adovocate for their murder?” he spat.

Faen was quite used to dealing with men like him. Men who extrapolated what they wanted from anything they could get their hands on. These people were lacking in reason and rationale and jumped to conclusions far outside the realm of possibility. If Faen had said ‘it is raining,’ men like him would only hear ‘it is’ and fill in the blank with whatever they fancied. 

“ _ No, _ ” Arnard clarified. At some point during the entire conversation, he had released his hold on her, “But self defense is a valid defense. One you have no right to dismiss. You were not there.”

“And neither were you!” Cauncelt barked back.

The timid guard spoke up. “I challenge your notion that a hatred for an entire race of people is a ‘strongly held conviction.’ It is a strongly held conviction of mine that Andraste is our Holy Lady. I do not torment feel so strongly about it that I see the need to torment an entire people for it.” he said.

Something unspoken and threatening passed between Cauncelt and the man. Faen could practically feel the hatred and anger in his glare pressing down upon her skin through her layers of clothes. His intent was to silence the man, put an end to his retaliation so he could regain control of the situation. Not that it had ever waned enough for there to be any concern. 

Silence fell upon the room, the only sound the occasional rustle of armor as one of the guards shuffled uncomfortably. Cauncelt ran his tongue over his teeth and stared at her until she felt as though she stood there naked. 

“Take her to the holding cells. It is too early to bother the judge. Send some men to the Northwing to investigate and collect the bodies.” he finally said, voice firm.

He’d said something odd. One word rolled around in her mind, stirring an interest she couldn’t ignore. “Northwing?” she asked.

Cauncelt’s eyes had never left her but he looked at her with something new in his eyes. “Yes.” he said gravely.

“The alienage is massive. It’s about the size of a small city in and of itself.” she said, “I never said where the attack happened.” 

Cauncelt’s glared grew impressively dark and violent. He unravelled his arms from his chest slowly, his muscles likely calculating the worth of slapping her. “They told me where they were going.” he said with great strain.

His lies were horribly constructed things that moved any bard worth their salt to great pain. He most certainly lacked the training she’d had since a young age on how to properly weave a convincing lie, but that did not excuse his grievous attempt at it. 

“Their patrols were not sanctioned by you, Captain of the guard, and yet...you allowed them to continue when they informed you of what they were doing? Where they were going?” she challenged, “Why not just sanction it to begin with if you were letting them do it anyway?”

Cauncelt had enough of her line of questioning and struck her like she’d never been struck before. She’d been hit before. But never with an open palm, never by a hand larger than her entire head, and never so brutally. His blow was so powerful she could feel her teeth rattle in their sockets. The pain was expected. At first, it was a sharp burn on her cheek. Then it was a dull throb in her jaw and temple. 

The others gasped and she felt Arnard’s strong hands pull her back against him, away from Cauncelt. 

“Captain, restrain yourself!” he barked, “You had absolutely no right or reason to act out in such a way!”

Cauncelt ignored him. “Do not question me, girl.” he said, his tone unsettlingly even and calm, “I don’t have to explain myself to a murderous elf. Know your place. Take her out of my sight. Rigort, stay back. I need a word with you.”

She rubbed at her cheek, focusing her attention on the feel of her own hand rather than the throb of pain in her face. Instead of boiling over with rage, Faen was...satisfied. Quite thoroughly. Her suspicion had been mounting — mounting to what was still a mystery — but this near confirmed what she’d had a sneaking suspicion about. It was easy to equate his action to a fragile ego, but men with fragile egos rarely acted out in  _ such  _ a fashion in front of people who could hold them accountable. Men with something to hide were far more reckless. He could not stand to have his intentions known by the men he commanded. So it was easier to silence her quickly and deal with excessive force than deal with the real issue.

The timid man, Rigort, stiffened but nodded and moved himself away from the others. 

Arnard cast his men a look then flicked his eyes back over to Cauncelt. “Lord Veeron will hear about this.” he hissed, protectively wrapping his arms around Faen and storming off before Cauncelt could say much more.

Once they were suitable distance from the Captain’s office, Arnard stopped the escort and focused on Faen.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes darting wildly across her face. He towered over her, as most humans did. But unlike most humans, he lowered himself to her height and met her eyes. There was kindness there as well as duty.

Her distrust of the humans ran deep. She knew intimately,  _ too  _ intimately, how they conducted their affairs and this knowledge tainted her image of them. Well, that and the hounding of the Dalish that the only people worth trusting were their own. 

But she was no idiot. As deep as the resentment and distrust and even hate ran, she knew in her heart that there were humans who meant well. Arnard was one of them. Bound by duty, driven by it and loyal to it, but he was still a man who cared. He was the purest form of the law, it would seem.

She smiled faintly. “Yes.” she said, “Thank you for all you did back there. It’s...unusual to have an advocate that isn’t myself.”

“Yes, well. Captain Cauncelt was out of line. Far out of line.” he said, to which his men agreed, “I am sorry I doubted you.”

She shrugged. “I do not blame you.” she admitted.

“You should. It is common knowledge what those three did in their freetime. I’ve never had the spine to stand up to them. It’s wrong. I do not agree with how they conduct themselves.” Arnard continued, voice weighed down by guilt and shame, “I should have…”

“There are many things we all should have done.” one of the others said, “But we cannot do them now. What matters is how we move forth.”

They escorted her to the holding cells without issue. Her face still hurt, as did her whole body, but it was nothing she could not endure. When they arrived at her cell, she was thankful to be its sole occupant. 

“Is there someone we could contact?” Arnard asked, “You have a right to legal counsel.”

She sighed. There were people he could contact, yes. Did she  _ want  _ them to be contacted? No. They hadn’t discussed a course of action yet, saving that for the morning. And Faen defied them. They would be most unhappy.

“Yes. Members of the Inquisition are staying at Solde’s Inn just outside the city.” she admitted, “But do not bother them until sunrise. They’ve had a trying day.”

Arnard’s eyes went wide. “The Inquisition?” he breathed.

She nodded somberly. “Yes...we had business in the city.” she informed him.

If it were possible, his eyes went wider as realization dawned on him. “I had heard the Andraste’s Herald was an elf…” he muttered, mistified, “Could it be…?”

There was no benefit in denying it. If anything, it could possibly help her cause. In fact, the detail had slipped her mind entirely whilst dealing with Cauncelt.

“Touched though I may be, my life has been nothing but hell since the mark.” she said. A dark chuckle rumbled in her chest. She opened her marked hand, her thumb drawing across the silvery gash across her palm. Strange how it looked so docile and innocent. One could wonder if perhaps she’d sliced herself on a jagged edge at some point. But she knew its truth. In it, there was great power. The power to heal the world. 

It sparkled to life at her touch and she frowned. Arnard gasped.

“Your Worship!” he exclaimed, “I-I, this is not right.”

“What isn’t?”

“I hear what they say about you. That you can close the Breach.” he said, “The Captain would release you if he knew the power you held. How closely tied your fate is to the rest of the world.”

“I doubt it.” she spoke, “There seemed to be something we are not privy to happening. Even so, too many people see me as a heretic or as something causticaly offensive. I am not above the law. My fate matters little to these people when they’re so entrenched in denial.” 

Arnard blathered on about how wrong the whole thing was. She was grateful for his kindness and even his chatter, in a small way, but his voice quickly rooted out any string of thoughts that flitted through her mind. She needed to  _ think.  _ And she couldn’t and it frustrated her beyond all belief.

Finally, after a handful of long, torturous minutes, Arnard suggested she sleep and left her.

The holding cell she sat in was rather bland. She supposed the name rang true. This was not where the guilty, and sometimes not so guilty, served out their sentences. This was a limbo of sorts, the place in between here and there. It was maddening. She felt sleep tug at her eyelids with needy little hands but she wasn’t too keen on shutting her eyes here in this dank, cold cell. At least she was alone and had the silence to allow muffled thoughts to mature into moans of dread that filled her head with a weight so acute she had difficulty keeping it up. 

They were all the same, her thoughts. They were a resounding symphony declaring how fucked she was, how stupid she was, how her good intentions would backfire completely. She had gotten herself into a mess and one that wasn’t entirely clear at the moment. That frustrated her more than anything. The machinations playing out just out of view, likely behind closed doors was taunting her. Her curious nature longed to  _ know  _ but her hopelessness of the situation made it grow to something even stronger than longing.

She could not see how the Inquisition could help. Would they even want to? The predicament was messy at best and wholly incendiary at worst. They would certainly see her as too much of a controversial figure to even bother with the details of working through her freedom. 

Her only hope was the mark and even that was a slim hope. Perhaps it was easier to downplay her significance, make it so that the inevitability of the outcome did not sting so dreadfully. 

The mark fizzled faintly once more and she squeezed her hand shut, trying so hard to pour into it every fear and every worry. It could mend the rifts, why couldn’t it mend her heart?

Faen had a sudden and powerful desire to be back with her clan. Such was the first time in a long while. As strange as it was, it was neither unfamiliar nor unwelcome. Just absolutely useless. She could hunger for the simplicity of roaming the forests and filling her day with menial tasks all she wanted. It would not change things. She would still be shivering in a dreary cell under human scrutiny, not warming herself by the fire with A’len’s cinnamon milk as the Keeper told colorful tales of the people’s history. 

Hell, even Haven would’ve been a better place than this. It wasn’t that she hated Haven...it was just filled with the constant reminders that she didn’t belong to herself anymore. She was a thing of the Maker now. 

_ I hope the Maker is having his fun. _

She sighed and drew her hand through her hair, disturbing her simple plait. It mattered little. She was beyond caring if her braid was in order or not. The people of Val Royeaux would condemn her for a hair out of place. But she was already condemned. And she didn’t care. 

Her thoughts should be racing, her mind so active it was a wonder it didn’t break through her skull and run laps around the cell. But her thoughts were quiet. They were so quiet, so soft that all she heard was the thunder of blood in her ears. Rare was the occasion that even her thoughts provided her no comfort, least of all company.

Almost instinctively did her hands snake up her body and wind themselves around her throat. Their pressure was heavier than before, back at the inn, but void of the life-ending pressure of the guard’s hands. Who was he? Pierre? Renold? Gustav? 

Did it matter?

Whoever he was, he was dead now. Names were of little consequence. There was great power in a name, a title, a rank. But that power was substantially diminished when the beholder was both dead  _ and  _ so alike to another. 

She laid back on her cot, hands still wound around her throat. She squeezed the bruises and gasped sharply at the pain that shot through her.

The realization was sudden and marginally upsetting but it dawned on her that Pierre’s, Renold’s, Gustav’s hands around her throat, wrestling the life from her had nearly killed her. It wasn’t that simple fact that disturbed her. It was the revelation that in that moment, despite her body begging for mercy and air and relief, despite the desperate fight for life, she’d felt more alive and more seen than she had in her entire life. And she craved more of it. 


	5. Action Before Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't remember if I mentioned this, but do know that I'm taking a 'break' from this fic after this chapter to work on some other things that tie into this story. After every five chapters, I'll take a break to work on one or two fics that aren't related/aren't this particular fic. Just thought I should tell y'all!  
Anyways, I hope you enjoy. I'm actually really proud of this chapter and had a lot of fun with it? I worked on it fairly fast, finishing it in just under a week. Forgive any errors or weird wording, I'm working on editing, but I become so overcome by the desire to publish that I...don't.  
If you're in America, Happy Thanksgiving! Be safe and have fun.

For the first time since he woke in this age, Solas slept uncomfortably. Quite grand indeed seeing as he’d drifted off into the Fade with great ease in places that were so far removed from their prime, from life that it took a sincere effort to chase after their memories. He’d spent centuries lying in soft beds, cocooned in sheets of silk, and warmed by the beautiful bodies of the ardently enthusiastic. Imagine his surprise when he took to lying on cold, hard, frequently uneven ground with as much ease as a body of water consuming a dropped pebble. 

This bed, howbeit lumpy and stiff, was a luxury compared to the places he slept in ruins. And yet, he could not get comfortable. Discomfort was the sworn enemy of good, restful sleep. Discomfort warded off any extensive entry into the Fade.

That’s what he believed, anyways. The truth was he was  _ avoiding _ the truth of the situation. Yes, the bed was uncomfortable, but that hadn’t stopped him before. He slept, if one desired to call ceaseless tossing and turning mixed with a calculated effort to keep his eyes shut ‘sleep,’ so poorly because he was  _ worried.  _ Solas did not consider himself a man too preoccupied with the past. Any rational sentient being could see how comically wrong that consideration was. The man was rife with worry, with the inability to let things go, and not dwell on it. Although he was a man consumed by worry, he was not accustomed to  _ acknowledging it.  _

His thoughts were hounded by Faen’s wellbeing and he hated it. She was a big girl in no need of his concern. But he couldn’t help it. Her night...had been rough. She shrugged off his concerns with ease, but he knew it wasn’t that simple. Faen was a bit of an enigma to him, but she wasn’t this complete mystery that was beyond solving. Their time together had been short, yet it was the most time he’d spent with anyone in...he didn’t like to think about just how long it had been but it had been a time. She gave little in the way of hints as to how she was feeling, what she thought, but she  _ did  _ have them. 

When they returned to the Inn and was poked and prodded by Cassandra regarding their lateness and her wounds, her shoulders shrank, the muscles in her thigh bulged. When Varric asked if she was alright, her eyes glazed over and her tone changed. When Solas offered his apology, something changed in the way her lips parted. Despite her insistence that she was fine, she was  _ not  _ fine. 

It felt wrong to have left her alone as he did. But...what was the alternative? Bother her? Push her into a corner and watch her squirm as he forced her to confront something that she clearly wasn’t willing to deal with? At one point, he would have.  _ It is easier to run from the beast but it is better to face it.  _ While true, it had taken him centuries to discover it wasn’t as universal a truth, let alone as applicable, as he had originally thought. The awareness that individuals were just that — individuals — was one that he was ashamed to admit took him far too long to realize.

Inaction didn’t sit right with him. Action would have destroyed what they had already established. There was no solid, preferable middle-ground to speak of. 

If he wasn’t kept awake by his worry for her mental state, he was kept awake by her last words to him.

_ I’m quite fond of you. _

Her words were surprising but pleasant. He was not unused to the notion of being liked, his company preferred before all others. Well, that statement wasn’t entirely true nor entirely false. It was a delicate amalgamation of the two. In the time before the fall of the elvhen, he was a perfectly popular man. Women would commit atrocities just to garner his attention, however slight, though no one woman could hold his attention longer than a few months, and do the unspeakable to be considered to warm his bed. Men would do the same but their interests lied more with obtaining a piece of his power to build up their own small kingdom of hedonism than lying with him. The differences were both slight and profound but wholly the same. 

When the proud, abundantly pliant, and sybaritic god shifted into a man dedicated to what was right and bettering the position of the majority, the common, he was valued because of what he stood for. What his presence meant was immeasurable to the people. 

Either way, the reasons never pertained to him personally and people concerned themselves with his power and efficacy alone.

Faen, from the softness of her words, the shy blush upon her high cheeks, and the inadvertent admittance, meant she was fond of him because he was  _ him.  _ She enjoyed him company for  _ him.  _

But he tried to convince himself otherwise. She said such a thing because she was appreciative of his knowledge and guidance, nothing more. 

The spirit of wisdom, who was potent enough to speak to him even in this dim half-awake and half-asleep presence in the Fade, countered his argument.

_ Are they not elements of you?  _ it asked sincerely.

He had sighed and massaged his temples. It pressed him further about how his knowledge and guidance were not impersonal aspects steered by themselves. She could very well enjoy his knowledge and guidance  _ because they came from him.  _

And then it began to point out how he shared the same sentiment, was as equally fond of her, and that is when he forced wisdom to dissipate back into the nothingness and everything of the Fade and was shocked awake.

Thankfully, his room was bathed in the brightness of the next day, its light having snuck in through the window he’d forgotten to draw the curtains across. Being glad to wake to find it morning did not translate well to getting out of bad. He struggled immensely to slither out from the warmth of the bed, though he found he was beyond tired of the bed by this point. Once he was out, his bare skin prickling at the drastic shift from fuzzy warmth to shivery cold, he found his rhythm and dressed himself quickly. 

As he walked down the hallway to the stairs, his conversation with Wisdom danced through his mind.

_ It is not a thing to be ashamed of to admit you enjoy her. It would do you good to grow close to someone real. _

_ You  _ are  _ real. _

_ Reach out and touch me. Tell me how real I feel. _

_ He did as it asked and extended his hand to its visage. His hand met with nothing. In a childish fit of no longer wanting to continue the conversation, he waved his hand through the mist of Wisdom and erased all trace of it from this particular spot in the Fade. _

He frowned as he passed Faen’s door. It was unsurprisingly shut, wordlessly informing him she had no desire to interact with the world yet. If she was even in there. He had a feeling she was still in bed, awake but unmoving. Haunted by her thoughts and the deeds done to her the previous night. He suspected she’d slept as poorly as him. 

As strong as the desire to knock on her door was, Solas could not find it in him to do so. She would come out when she was ready.

Solas enjoyed mornings; he woke early and found himself to be most productive the younger the day was. In spite of this, the common area was far too lively for him, especially with such poor sleep hanging over him. The Inn was abnormally rustic for a place so close to Val Royeaux and its clientele was as equally as rustic. Plain merchants of no grandstanding coming to try their hand at the luxurious and vicious markets of the capital, poor pilgrims who pushed aside the tricky chaos of the world and the Chantry to settle their eyes upon the seat of southern faith, lowly minstrels who were in urgent need to practice their craft anywhere they could. One could easily mistake the inn for somewhere deep within Ferelden or Nevarra, not sitting an hour’s travel from one of the greatest, grandest cities in the world. 

_ Current  _ world. 

The bitter and floral scent of freshly brewed Orlesian coffee mixed with the savory, juicy smell of fried bacon. Solas felt how right the mix of the two were in his heart. Coffee was the natural complement to bacon afterall. Unfortunately, he preferred neither. His people had not yet discovered coffee by the time...coffee was a fairly new occurence in Thedas. Bacon always had its appeal but Solas never had a taste for it. 

He wondered if Faen enjoyed it.

He shook his head and focused on the overly loud chatter of everyone in the common area. Solas supposed it was intended to be a tavern of sorts. There was a large bar — large enough for him and Varric to lie lengthwise down — and the rest of the space was filled with mismatched tables and chairs. Was the eclectic vibe intentional? Intent permeated every action of the elves of old. His people were a meaningful and purposeful people. It pleased him to see that the husks of his people alive today had not lost this purpose. He could not say the same of the humans.

Cassandra and Varric stood out easily amongst the usual crowd.Their armor set them apart from the rest quite nicely. Solas strolled over to their table with ease. The amassed crowd was thick, notably so considering how early it was, but it parted for him as if he stank of piss and rot. It was most certainly the staff strapped to his back. Cassandra had begged him to hide it somehow, to make it less offensive, to which he had clicked and agreed, suggesting he could chop the staff up into more manageable pieces to be stored in his pockets. 

Faen was noticeably absent from the table, not that he expected any different, but the lack of her presence felt wrong somehow. He sat down without much of a show, as there was no conversation to interrupt. Varric was multitasking profficently, his attention split between forking in small bites of scrambled eggs and peering through the glasses perched at the tip of his nose to read the words in the book in his hand. Cassandra was lazily swirling her fingers around the rim of her steaming mug, the coffee within it black. 

“Morning!” Varric greeted, flicking his eyes over for a brief second before the book once again took his attention. The book didn’t hold his attention for long. His friendly brown eyes shot back over to Solas all too quickly. “Uh, sleep good?” he asked, setting the book down.

“You look like shit.” Cassandra commented. Solas frowned.

“Beautifully put, Seeker. And here I thought they taught the nobility  _ manners. _ ” Varric said, kicking Cassandra’s shin beneath the table.

“Yes…” Solas mused, “Thank you. I am well aware.”

Cassandra felt bad for being so blunt, in her own Cassandra way. She was not a rude woman. Not as much as she was a hopelessly passionate one who saw no use in skirting the truth, no matter who it satisfied. “I take it you couldn’t sleep either,” she said softly. Her eyes glazed over momentarily as she brought the mug to her lips.

Solas shook his head. “No. I couldn’t,” he admitted, “It’s odd to wake tired.”

Varric gave him a small reassuring smile and patted his hand. “I’m sure she’s alright, Chuckles.” he said.

Solas lamented the fact that he was so appallingly transparent that a dwarf could see through him. Varric was sharper than most but still. It felt as if his worries were written in big bold letters across the expanse of his forehead and that everyone, whether literate or not, could read them. 

“I was convinced the guards would barge in all night,” Cassandra said, “Point fingers and drag her away. If we lose her…”

“ _ It’ll be a great shame because she’s a person and one I happen to enjoy. _ ” Varric stated pointedly. Solas also lamented the fact that he had not been the one to say it, even if that would require admitting the truth of it.

“I  _ know  _ that, but-” Cassandra began.

“You would grieve for the loss of the solution and not the loss of the person.” Solas finished and corrected. 

“You see her as the answer to our prayers, but glance over the fact that she’s just one person.” Varric continued.

Cassandra groaned. “I’m glad the two of you know my thoughts better than I do,” she mumbled.

The conversation was dropped in favor of another and slowly, the tavern emptied as its occupants seeped out to go about their business elsewhere. By his guess, they’d only been sitting there for about twenty or so minutes, but it felt much longer. When he had his fill of warm food, which was eerily delicious, and Faen had still not appeared, he took matters into his own hands.

He asked the innkeep for a small tray of eggs and bacon, nothing too fancy and whatever was leftover so as not to cause undue stress, and waited patiently for the food. He was glad to see that the food was still warm, thanked the kindly innkeep, tossed her a coin, and took the tray upstairs.

Solas stood before her closed door for a time, contemplating if it was worth it to disturb her. Even if she did not want to confront anyone, she still had to eat. So he knocked. 

No answer.

He knocked again.

No answer, but this time, the door creaked open in the slightest. Despite his better judgment, he pushed through and into the room.

“Faeneth?” he called.

The room was empty, save for the black cat asleep atop the neatly made bed. At his intrusion, the cat perked its head up and glared at him half-heartedly. He was more than slightly confused, but beneath the confusion came the weight of apprehension.

_ Where is she? _

The cat blinked slowly and instead of opening its mouth to hiss at him, Gitta meowed shrilly.

_ If you need ask, maybe you don’t need to know. Otherwise, I think you know where, Wolf. _

He did.

-+-

The voice could hardly qualify as one with its breathy tone spilling out as a barely audible hiss. “You’re in great danger,” it said. It felt as if the words had been pressed directly into the shell of her ear, the speaker’s lips forming the words with such uncomfortable perfection that she felt like squirming.

In reality, the voice came from just beyond the bars of the cell. She rolled over quickly to catch the speaker. A single beam of morning light fell through the narrow slit in the singular window in the whole corridor. Its light was enough to reveal an outline of the speaker, provide a few vague details of a face, but little else. 

“You’ve stepped in shit you can’t scrape off.” it continued, noticeably rushed.

She sat up, still groggy from her sleep but alert enough to have some semblance of an understanding. Keyword.

“What?” she muttered.

The beholder of the voice looked around frantically. “This could’ve been anyone of your kind. Fortunate it was you.” it said and Faen couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female. “I’ve already sent a raven to Sister Nightingale.”

Faen perked significantly at the mention of the spy. “Leliana?” she confirmed a bit too enthusiastically. The speaker hushed her quickly.

“ _ Quiet _ ,” they hissed, “But yes. Leliana, Sister Nightingale, all the same. No doubt she’s already whittling away at a plan, has the Lady Montilyet on it.”

Relief flooded her, though she knew it was too hasty a reaction to be of any use. Their involvement meant little in the way of immediate relief. Even so, Faen could not help but feel a sense of hope bubbling up within her depths. In fact, the person just outside her cell, risking their neck to spit some words at her, was enough proof to see that she was not alone in this world, not entirely. She would not be abandoned here.

“But between you and me...if the word around here is true…” they continued.

And her hope plummeted back down into the abyss. “What? What have you heard?” she asked.

“You’re trapped in something far bigger than you.” they admitted sheepishly, “The political and societal maneuvering required to let you walk away…”

Just then, there was the telltale squeal of an unoiled door hinge and the distinct footfalls of heavy boots coming their way. The stranger scrambled away and left no trace of their presence. Where they once stood, the ground there covered in a layer of dirt and dust, was completely undisturbed. Faen questioned if her mystery informant had even been  _ real  _ or a figment of her sleep-deprived imagination.

Moments later a guard she’d never seen, not that she was certain due to the full-faced mask of iron, stood where the stranger once stood. 

“You ‘ave guests,” he said, his accent thicker than anyone she’d encountered thus far.

That could mean a whole host of things. The guests could be welcomed, spark hope in her once more. Or deepen her dread and stir up unpleasantness anew. It was difficult to tell which way the wind blew when she was locked up inside a cold cell. 

But the guests were most welcome. Three familiar faces, drawn in worry and anger, greeted her and she sighed audibly.

“It is good to see you guys,” she breathed, clutching the rusty iron bars.

Solas was at the forefront, his collected demeanor gone and in its place one of anger and surprising passion. He practically slammed himself into the bars separating them and glared at her intensely. 

“Foolish girl!” he exclaimed through clenched teeth.

His presence was usually so...unassuming. Not small, but not overly present at all. True, he radiated a certain  _ something  _ that Faen could not decide if she liked or not, but it was usually not so powerful as it was now. Now she realized his energy was merely  _ controlled  _ and that there was a side to him that was ruthlessly intimidating and feral. It was rather jarring. 

She felt like shrinking back.

_ No girl of mine would be cowed by a simple show of power. _

A’len’s voice rang sharper than it had in years. The words carried A’len’s weathered and solid voice but the words were  _ so  _ A’len that she was certain she was alive and speaking to her now. She straightened and instead of avoiding the storm in his eyes, met them with a force of their own.

Something wordless was exchanged between them. She could feel the words spilling between them in silence.

_ You should’ve waited ‘til morning! I should’ve been with you! _

A lot of should’ves. But it was too late to change that now.

“Stand down, Chuckles,” Varric eased, “At this point, you’re just needlessly beating a dead horse.”

Solas did not reign in his oppressive energy but he did back down, though not without throwing her a look that informed her they would speak of this when they could.

Cassandra had some nasty words for the guard, to which he likely neither cared not listened to. He stood with his back-turned to the cell and his mask hiding his face. When Cassandra saw how fruitless the whole effort was, she turned her attention to Faen.

“Are you alright?” Solas blurted before Cassandra could utter a word.

Faen smiled thinly. “Fine, all things considered.” she said, “The captain of the guard was less than thrilled by my confession, as I’m sure you can suspect. But…”

Her eyes flicked to the guard and back. The group eyed the guard as well and if it weren’t for Varric’s golden tongue, he would likely still be a nagging presence on the sidelines. She could speak freely with him gone.

“He was not upset by it.” she informed them, “Not as upset as one would expect. It was almost as if he’d anticipated this.”

“How so?” Cassandra asked.

“He seemed more angered by me pointing out the inconsistencies in his account than by the death of his men.” she replied.

She worried her lower lip as she paced about in the cell. “And just before the three of you arrived, I had a mysterious visitor,” she whispered, “They said something about me stumbling upon something bigger than it appeared. They said they’d sent a raven to Leliana.”

Varric frowned. “It doesn’t surprise me that Nightingale has people all over the city. But they couldn’t be less cryptic than ‘this is bigger than you?’ No shit, I could’ve told you that.” he said, stroking his stubbled chin. His chest hair, usually a lovely sight, looked to be a lesser version of itself in this horrid lighting.

“It was strange. We were pressed for time, but they could’ve given me something.” she agreed.

“Perhaps it is more obvious than you think.” Solas chimed in.

Everyone looked to him to elaborate further.

“This would not be the first time in history that those in power used it to diminish the position of the elves, incite some sort of mass hatred against them.” he explained.

“Not that they need anymore reason…” Varric mumbled, “You elves could bleed out on the steps of the Grand Cathedral and the humans would raze the alienage for soiling the marble.”

“If there is some sort of elaborate plan in place, we have no proof. Nor do we have any concept of the desired outcome.” Cassandra said. Always the voice of ignorance.

Faen, Solas, and Varric stared at in disbelief.

“It’s not that deep, Seeker,” Varric snapped.

“It truly isn’t,” Solas seconded, “You’re living in a world of fantasy and painful ignorance if you cannot see or acknowledge the goal. While we cannot be specific in our hypothesis, we know enough to be in a whole realm of likelihood.” 

“Terrorizing the elves with an aggressive, yet small complement of hateful soldiers, sending them to roam the alienage nearly everyday, granting them the ability to do as they pleased? What other outcome could there be besides pushing the elves to the edge and expecting them to lash out violently? How would the humans respond to a human authority spun tale of the whole ordeal?” Faen postulated.

Cassandra frowned. “You do not know this.” she pleaded, “It’s too elaborate. I do not believe an authority would go this far just to stir hatred of the elves…”

Cassandra  _ would  _ say that. There was no convincing the woman. Faen thought she’d gotten through to her, that they’d shared a moment of equal vulnerability, but at the core of it, they had not made the leeway Faen had initially thought. 

Varric and Solas glared at her for a time, their mouths opening and closing as they tried and failed to find the words to convince her. Faen kept her eyes on her white knuckles, their strain the only thing real enough in the moment to keep her grounded. 

The Seeker cleared her throat to break the uneasy silence. “What do we do? How do we go on from here?” she asked.

Though they did not physically turn their eyes to her, Faen could sense that  _ she  _ was the one expected to have a plan. She cursed them for their trust in her, for their belief in her. She would say it was grievously misplaced, but she could not deny how she often took the lead. They followed  _ her  _ orders on some unspoken arrangement, for she never demanded to take the lead or was never appointed as some sort of authority in their travels. Maybe it was the mark. No, it was absolutely the mark.

She hung her head low as she thought. “I suppose...there’s nothing we  _ can  _ do,” she disclosed, the words tasting bitter in her mouth. 

Varric tried to look her in the eyes. “What?” he gasped, “You can’t be giving up!”

“She’s not,” Solas said, eyeing her intensely. 

He was right, she was not. She could see how it would seem that way but she preferred to think she was being tactful and not reckless for once. 

“Leliana will know soon enough. We can’t do much of anything without her agents or Josephine’s wisdom,” she said, “Anything we do will just scuff things up even more.”

“You’re bound to receive counsel,” Cassandra mentioned and it was perhaps the most useful addition that wasn’t offensive or annoyingly righteous to any conversation they’d ever had, “Such is your right. Even if your theory is correct, they cannot deny you your rights on the basis of being an elf.”

“We do not know how deep the conspiracy runs,” Solas warned, “Who is to say the counsel has not been perverted?”

“ _ If  _ there even is a conspiracy,” Cassandra muttered. Everyone ignored her.

“I say we find our own. Someone with a history of a fierce defense for the controversial,” Varric suggested.

“I doubt the Inquisition has the coin to pay a defense counsel with such a history. That’s if the Inquisition decides to bother with me, which is yet another thing I doubt,” Faen groaned.

“No, the Inquisition  _ will  _ stand by you. I will make sure of it,” Cassandra said with conviction, which surprised Faen. Cassandra has maintained an air of dubiousness throughout the entire ordeal that Faen was beginning to suspect she was in favor of her being locked up for a time. The Seeker seemed to have a strong and maybe even extreme sense of justice, one that was more skewed towards establishments than the individual. But Faen had been wrong.

“Thank you,” she said, bowing her head slightly. Cassandra gave a curt nod.

“We’ll find the rest of Leliana’s people in the city and consult with them. Send another raven if we have to. Get them to listen a little bit more intently to see if they hear anything of interest,” Varric said.

Faen felt as if their visit were winding down and with it, her mood. Her hope was retreating, taking with it her desire to be attentive. She would miss them. The silence and cold of her lonely cell was no comfort. 

Solas had remained unusually quiet, which saddened her. Of course, they couldn’t have anything resembling a personal conversation, but she was in dire need of the strange comfort he provided. Cassandra was utterly useless and truly a detriment, but she was growing better. Varric was somewhat comforting because he tried. Despite that, nothing could ease her more than Solas telling her everything would be alright. 

“I’ll be here,” she said, motioning to the cell.

With that, her companions left, but not before Solas lightly brushed her fingers with his knuckles, a gesture he quickly recoiled from and sped away. The look in his eyes before he had darted off was one she would not forget; a blend of worry and guilt paired with resentment and tenderness. 

-+-

She looked so small, smaller than she usually was, in that cell. A beaten animal, cowering in the shadows because the light revealed the extent of the wounds. It felt wrong to bear witness to her confinement. He felt like some greedy, curious onlooker gazing in on some caged and scared animal. But Faen was not scared. He wasn’t sure what she was.

Resignation was missing, as was any indication of desperation. Although there was something more basic than either of those. Faen was clearly worried, as any would be, but she wasn’t so worried that she couldn’t maintain a level-headed approach to the situation. In truth, she seemed more preoccupied than worried or afraid. Had it been the mysterious visitor, words of a grander scheme than any of them knew upon their lips? Could she still be reeling from the events of the night before? Foolish of him to wonder. The answer was obvious. Even  _ he  _ was still reeling from the attack and he hadn’t a scratch on him. 

That bothered him. His role in the attack, his sense of duty and rightness demanded he be on the other side of those bars, not out and about as if nothing had happened. By the end of this, he would walk away unscathed and that was wrong. It was Faen who would bear this weight, wear the marks of every result from this whole ordeal. 

How many times could a man walk away from a mess he’d created without so much as a blemish upon him? How many times could a man duck from beneath the reach of accountability and get away safely? He felt as if his luck, which he knew it was, were running awful thin. Sooner or later, he would crumble beneath the heavy sheet of his actions and give in to punishment.

His grip on the delicate handle of the ornate cup tightened. Varric bumped his shoulder gently.

“Relax, Chuckles,” the dwarf mumbled, “It’ll all work out. Have a little faith.”

Solas inhaled sharply through his nostrils, the sickeningly herbal scent of the tea in the cup filling his nostrils and running down his throat. He hated tea. He hated it on two principles: one being how it made it harder to transition into the Fade and two being the taste. How anyone could willingly drink it and call it ‘indulging’ was beyond him. But he needed it today. He was exhausted, his poor sleep biting at his heels with every step. The exhaustion was predictable, however. He could doze all he wanted, but he knew if he gave in, the sleep would be piss poor and nothing would get accomplished.

“Faith goes a long way if it’s founded upon  _ something  _ analogous to dimensional,” Solas insisted. His mood was growing increasingly foul.

“If you’ve got suggestions, I’m sure the whole class would love to hear it,” Varric countered.

He had nothing, at least nothing better than what they had. The dwarf’s point was proven. But he was not done yet. “Why have we deferred to the Seeker’s judgment and guidance?” he asked a little too loudly. They had previously spoken in hushed tones for fear of exciting Cassandra but Solas couldn’t contain himself.

The Seeker’s back had been turned to them as they waited for the contact, but at his words, she cocked her head back a bit to listen more intently. No doubt her lips were drawn in a tight frown.

“As much as I hate to admit it, Cassandra always dots her i’s and crosses her t’s,” Varric replied, sitting back in his chair. Solas did not mean to catch such sight of his chest but it amazed him how the man could sit out in the chill of fall with his shirt split so wide. “She’s remarkably...efficient. If there’s so much as a whisper of something afoul, she’s on it like a fly on shit.”

“Even if she’s not convinced?” Solas confirmed.

“Even if she’s not convinced,” Varric echoed, “One could argue she wasn’t entirely convinced about me either. Still isn’t.”

“Not in the slightest…” Solas muttered. Considering their constant bickering, Cassandra’s endless efforts to rid herself of him, and Varric’s chronic display of usefulness that makes the Seeker groan, it was obvious she was nowhere near convinced Varric was worth the trouble. Varric’s brows shot up and he eventually nodded in agreement.

“That assumption is correct,” Varric admitted and Solas had to hold back from saying that if it was so correct, it wasn’t an assumption, “But I’m still here, aren’t I? Looking handsome and getting shit done.”

Solas sighed.

Before he could respond, a plainly dressed human woman approached their table. She appeared as if from thin air. Her hood hid much of her face but when she was close enough, she pulled it back to reveal a horribly scarred face and hair like gold. The scars looked to be from burns.

“We’ve heard of the Herald’s troubles,” the woman informed them.

Cassandra motioned for her to sit down but she politely refused.

“Catriece,” Cassandra began, repositioning herself to better face the woman, “I was wondering if you’d heard anything more. About the situation.”

“We’ve sent word to the Nightingale,” the spy disclosed, “But that is the extent of our involvement.”

The Seeker scoffed. “Is that it? Just a raven to Leliana and you’re done?” she barked.

Solas set his cup down on the table and sat forward. “Did she and others  _ know  _ to do more?” he offered.

Catriece looked to him, a thank-you glittering in those pale eyes of hers. 

“All we knew was that the Herald had been placed under arrest. There were whispers of the crime at the time, but it was only just confirmed this morning,” the spy spoke slowly, as if explaining something exceptionally complex, “Our hands were tied with what we had. Is there something we should know about?”

Varric frowned. “Didn’t one of your agents speak to Lavellan in the prison? They hinted at some larger plot.” he asked.

Catriece cocked a brow. “No?” she said, “It’s possible. Our work often keeps us separated and contact is limited. There are a few of the Nightingale’s people among the guard but I would not know of their findings until the drop.”

“The drop?” Cassandra repeated.

“Now is not the time to give you a crash course in spy lingo,” Varric said and explained to the spy what all Faen had told them.

Catriece nodded slowly as she processed the information. “Yes…” she murmured, “There  _ was  _ mention of corruption in the ranks…”

“And you did not investigate?” Solas asked.

“Our efforts were directed elsewhere. If Sister Nightingale had the numbers, she would’ve spared a few people to investigate these claims. As it stands, our people are stretched thin,” she said, “We did not think it important at the time. It would have not impeded our efforts.”

Varric grumbled something under his breath but Solas did not catch it. 

“Look into these claims,” the Seeker commanded, “Find the truth. Leave no rock unturned. We must try every lead to have the Herald released. Start with the guard captain.”

Catriece nodded and sank back into the crowd, vanishing almost as illusively as she had appeared. 

With the spy gone, they all sat in silence, sipping on their beverages stewing in their thoughts. 

-+-

Bevis had rid himself of a surname years ago. He did not need it, not for this line of work. So he made one up. One that did not lug around the weight of his previous one and one that could not be used against him. It did not last long. 

He simply went by Bevis now. The Nightingale had been more than understanding when he had approached her, more brawn than brains, and begging to be of use in any way possible. It was strange how fate threw him at the feet of the Divine’s Left Hand, the Chantry, the Maker himself. There wasn’t a bone in his body that wasn’t thrumming with blasphemy. But he’d been so exquisitely down on his luck that it felt as if the forces of the universe had extended an arm and pointed an accusatory finger right at the Chantry, right at the Sister. 

He’d told her his name, Bevis, and said no more. She did not pursue an uncomfortable, unwarranted line of questioning like he thought she would. He always felt like she already knew to some extent. In the seedy underbelly he inhabited at the time, the name  _ Leliana  _ or  _ Sister Nightingale  _ held a sense of the metaphysical mysticism he’d come to expect of thieves and cheap assassins. He suspected she had powers beyond his comprehension. Her name had spilled from so many lips, the expression on their faces one of great fear, great respect, or the look one gives when smelling something particularly foul.

For years, he’d only heard about her. Wondered what she’d looked like. For a time, he imagined a small elf with a nasty face. He wasn’t sure why. And then Bevis acquired more on this mysterious woman who plagued the underworld like a persistent and vile cold. She had traveled with the famed Hero of Ferelden, fallen in deep with a mage of noble birth, had direct ties to the Divine.

When he grew tired of mindless, worthless work and stumbled into her web, he did not expect the Nightingale to be so...pretty. Her voice was soft and lyrical, her moniker doing her great justice. Her hair was a wash of orange fire. Her figure was slender and tall. Nothing like the tiny angry elf he imagined.

_ Please. Give me  _ something,  _ anything.  _

He felt like he was begging at her feet to have some worth. He was begging, yes, but not at her feet. 

He remembered her smile, one filled with a sickening kindness, and he felt like Mother was looking at him, the darkness gone from her eyes and replaced with something gentle. 

_ I will give you what you seek. _

Bevis remembered sobbing in her arms, her name not her own as he called out to her.  _ Thank you, Mother. Thank you, thank you.  _ The Nightingale did not seem to mind. 

She gave him another name, one to use out in the world.  _ Delroy Authier.  _ He could keep his original name, but no one was to know it outside of his secret world. He remained Bevis in his heart but on the outside, he was Delroy Authier, a humble guard in the great city of Val Royeaux’s Imperial Force. There were days when he could not tell the difference between Bevis and Delroy.

The Sister had sent him to Val Royeaux months ago, about half a year ago to be exact, to gather information of some dealings the Divine had suspicions of. She was worried that the guard had been unlawfully imprisoning people with ties to magic. Anything would qualify as ‘suspicious’ to the guard. The reports said that people with mage family members were being imprisoned and questioned, no matter that their relative was locked away in a Circle somewhere. But he found none of that, at least not in the position he held. In his months in the guard, he had quickly moved through the ranks and was now high enough to be privy to a great deal more than when he first started. 

There was some truth to the claims of imprisoning those with magical ties, though he found that their ties were much more solid than simply having mage relatives. They were always accused of practicing magical rituals, most often by people who couldn’t conceal their resentment for the accused to save their life. It was not as unlawful as once suspected. But he had a feeling, one that rolled around in his gut like some sort of parasite. 

Bevis handed off his knowledge to the Nightingale but requested to stay on for a bit longer. His gut feeling had been utterly correct, as it always had been.

_ Delroy  _ stumbled into quite the mess of things. 

A plot had been concocted by the higher-ups to...purge the alienage. Antagonize the elves to the point they reacted with violence. Frame it so that the men sent in would look as if they’d been doing the elves a service and that service had been repaid in blood. Just simple guardsmen were unaware of the plot, even the three who were sent in were unaware of their role in the scheme. But everyone above a certain level knew and was hell bent on guarding their secret like a mother cat guards her young. 

The men who comprised the exclusive inner circle numbered at ten. Ten men in the guard who had the power to give the incendiary push. Delroy had no idea how deep the plot ran. From their talk, which even after he was made aware of it was always hopelessly vague and likely coded, he had determined that at least two judges and a handful of nobles were dedicated to fanning the flames should anything come to fruition. 

Delroy had caught wind of the scheme by a stroke of luck. A commander above him, a man openly dubbed The Crusher but who preferred to go by Lancel D’Rosse, approached him with a task that at the time, seemed mundane enough. Execute a search warrant, no questions asked. Delroy arrived at the dwelling without complication, but his confidence in the situation dwindled when it became apparent that the situation was not all it seemed. He had been sent to the home of a rather prominent elven merchant, one who had done exceedingly well for himself considering the circumstances. The elf, Garrok, had a reputation that preceded him and spoke of the fairness in his dealings, of his bleeding heart that begged him to give back as much as he could manage and take as little as he could. An elf in high standing with the people was dangerous enough, but what surely provoked the guard to action was his vocal objection to the treatment of his people. Garrok’s voice was a sweet one and could trickle into your ears and nestle into your heart. The words he spoke were both lessened and strengthened by that voice. He had a sway on people. This the guard could not have. 

His home was to be searched, a term more synonymous with ransacked once in the employ of the guard, for either evidence of a stolen necklace from another merchant or the necklace itself. Delroy doubted the substance of the claims but he did as told. Afterall, no questions asked. 

Garrok had seemed confused by his request, asserting that not only had he never stolen anything, but that he’d never even been accused. Delroy knew well enough that he was telling the truth. He searched the house, leaving behind a convincing enough mess, until he found what he was looking for. The necklace. It was a dull thing, one not worthy of much fuss at all. A dirty pearl strung on a chain of silver. It was obvious what had happened. Though he could not say who, Delroy knew people had slipped in while the elf was out and hide the necklace of little value. 

But he didn’t ask questions. 

He arrested Garrok and upon his return and depositing the elf in a cell, D’Rosse invited him into his office. 

He started by expressing his appreciation of a man who can take orders. Then the conversation wandered into the commander disclosing how thrilled he was that someone so agreeable and capable shared his views. At that point, Bevis was a tad bit confused on what exactly he meant, but Delroy had an inkling. D’Rosse continued by laying out a grand idea of a utopia without the “stain” of the elves. 

Delroy played along well. The more he fed into D’Rosse’s plan, the more he learned the extent of it. It was...surprisingly impressive, no matter how wrong it was. He was elevated to the rank of an officer and was welcomed into a fold he did not want to be a part of.

Bevis harbored no particular feelings towards the elves. After he stripped himself of his life as it once was, he’d gotten involved with an elven girl. Nothing too serious but nothing too casual either. It had been nice while it lasted. But it did little to make him feel one way or the other on elves. He had never seen her as anything other than herself. Even with his lack of an opinion on the elves, he knew what was happening was wrong. 

Delroy, on the other hand, had quite strong opinions on elves, none of which were too positive.

Once Bevis had gathered a suitable amount of information, sat in on enough meetings, seen enough coded documents, he began his efforts to inform Sister Leliana. He sent ravens but heard nothing back. He left remarks in the drops around the city and a few outside the city, but nothing came of it. It had been weeks since his last correspondence with the Nightingale and days since he had contact with anyone he was certain he could trust. 

When the Herald had been arrested, he was certain his position had been compromised.

He felt a twinge of guilt in his heart. In every way, he had failed. This purpose of his was not one he originally believed in. But now, his purpose was the only thing he  _ could  _ believe in. Serving Leliana and by extension, the  _ world,  _ the Herald, had been something he’d been proud of. He had use for once. And he’d failed.

Bevis slammed the door shut to his office, vaguely aware of the echo that sounded through the halls. He did not notice the figure sitting in his chair.

“You’ve done well, Bevis,” a voice said, the sound of it distinctly void of anything male or female. 

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Have I, Rowena?” he asked, defeated. 

“I think so.” she replied back.

Bevis thought he ought to be grateful for her presence. It meant his efforts had not failed as he originally thought. But Rowena being here meant one thing and one thing only. He did not want to acknowledge it, but he had to. He had no choice.

“Is this it then?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so,” she admitted sorrowfully, “I have all the documents. I’ve sent word to the Nightingale. The Herald knows, as do her companions.”

He nodded slowly. Tears burned in his throat. “What happens now?” he whispered.

Rowena stood from her perch in the chair and approached him. He avoided eye contact with her. “They know,” she informed him, “Not the truth, but enough. Enough to justify killing you.”

Bevis chuckles darkly and sniffled. “As if they needed much of a reason,” he joked, unable to shed his horrible humor even now, “I knew this was coming. These people have seen my face, heard my voice. It does not matter that they do not know my name. They do not need it to find me.”

“You have options.”

“Enlighten me.”

Rowena palmed her belt, feeling for something subconsciously. “I offer you something far more savory than torture in some cellar beneath the earth,” she says delicately, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers find what they had been searching for blindly. They tug and pull at a pouch attached to her black belt and something loosens. She produces a vial. He knows what it is but he needs to hear her say it. “Sleep of the Eternal.” she tells him.

Some man he trained with all those months ago, some dwarven lad whose name eluded him, had suggested that all good spies carry a vial of the stuff on them. Sleep of the Eternal was a potent poison, one that lulled one to death as easily as sleep calls to the tired. He’d seen it in action once and in some strange way, he was grateful at Rowena’s suggestion. His death would be painless.

“Go on,” he said, jerking his chin towards the vial.

Rowena poured him a cup of wine, the goblet of choice was one gifted to him by Cauncelt himself. It was made of gold, encrusted with gems he did not know but they glittered like diamonds. The stem was an ornate thing, depicting two elongated dragons spiraling towards the heaven in what he presumed to be a fight. In their center stood a solid rod. As far as vessels to consume one’s death from, there were far worse ones to drink from.

When the goblet was sufficiently filled, Rowena uncorked the vial and emptied it. The liquid was clear and mixed perfectly with the wine. 

Silence spread between them as Bevis took the goblet and sniffed at it. He did not know what he expected. An acrid smell of death stirred in with something sweet? It just smelled like wine. He threw Rowena one last look, one filled with longing and acceptance, before throwing back the drink in one go.

The wine went down beautifully, as any good wine should. There was no indication that it was laced with a poison strong enough to linger so adamantly that contact with the blood is considered toxic, even hours after expiring. 

Bevis moved to the chair, his body still his own, and watched passively as Rowena rummaged through the drawers in his desk. No doubt she was looking for the impressive stack of evidence. But the most impressive collection of evidence was not something she could tangibly hold in her hands. He pointed to his temple.

“It’s all here,  _ chere, _ ” he said weakly. 

Rowena smiled sadly. Her hand, a freakishly large and gentle thing, came to rest upon his cheek. Her thumb traced over the prominence of his cheekbone. “Yes…” she agreed, “Had hate and greed not been such powerful impulses...you could spill all your secrets.”

Bevis smiled sadly. “We both know how nice words can be and how utterly useless,” he reminded her, “I could say anything I wanted, spend years telling what I know, and it’s meaningless if there exists nothing to back it up. Otherwise, it’s just talk.”

He pointed at a painting on the wall, one depicting Emperor Florian gazing off into the distance without a care in the world in his eyes. “There,” he told her, “You know.”

She did. She removed the painting to reveal a safe embedded in the wall. He did not need to tell her the combination. She knew that too. He heard the rustle of papers being shifted about but his body grew so tired and by the time he recognized the sound, he was as aware of it as he was the heartbeat of a mouse. Rowena turned to him, his stack of papers in her hand, and she folded them up. Deposited them in her blouse. Women were miraculous like that. Just shoving things in their shirts.

Exhaustion pulsated through him like a heartbeat. His head grew heavy, as did his limbs, and he found it difficult to swallow. But he did not mind. He felt Rowena pull his hand into hers and thought he felt her give a tight squeeze. 

“For the Herald,” he breathed. He wanted that to be his last words.

“For the Herald,” Rowena reiterated.

The world spun for a second before darkness ate at his vision and he was no longer aware of anything.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  



	6. Unlikely Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for the delay in an update, it took me a lot longer than I expected to write the Origins stuff and then a HELL of a lot longer to actually write the chapter. This chapter quickly got away from me and I think it's the longest in the series yet. Which baffles me because I feel like so little happens, but yeah. Do enjoy!
> 
> And heads up, I'm currently toying with the idea of writing a Carver/Merrill and Hawke/Fenris fic alongside this one, so I'll probably start on the next chapter right after this then switch between the two works.

Though he had his freedom, Solas wasn’t sure he was enjoying it anymore than Faen was enjoying her imprisonment. The passage of time seemed to slow to trickle when one was doing absolutely nothing but sitting around on their arse and worrying like some nervous mother when their child doesn’t appear the second she thinks they should. Solas knew to be kinder in his comparison, seeing as he had genuine room for great concern. 

Either way, what felt like weeks of sitting around had actually amounted to two days. Two days of helplessness, of boredom, of nothing substantial at all. They’d heard little from Leliana’s spies in that time, causing the worry to mount even further, and were quickly growing into something that transcended restless. Varric insisted on sending out his own people into the city, suggesting that it couldn’t hurt to have more ears to the ground, but Cassandra refused. Something about how it wasn’t wise to insult the Nightingale. 

Solas was not used to inaction. Well...not inaction while awake and aware. Since he was a boy, he’d had a fondness for being the incendiary or driving agent of things. Being dormant and unhelpful was odd and he felt as if he were being rubbed raw underneath the weight of it. 

But there was a slight benefit to stewing in his thoughts for a few days. He realized that he missed Faen. Varric was enjoyable enough, Cassandra decidedly less so, but Faen was a reassuring presence that he doubted anyone he’d met yet could rival. In truth, she wasn’t much of a presence at all with how quiet and unassuming she was. There were times he found her eyes too big, worried she saw too much with how she  _ bore into him.  _ But he decided she meant nothing by how she stared and wasn’t really even staring to begin with. Her eyes were just big and intense.

She was not his people but she would do for the time being. And he missed that. Once it was no longer unsettling, he grew to appreciate how quiet she was, grew to familiarize himself with her quirky and dry sense of humor that mirrored his own. 

His mind wandered to her treatment at the hands of authority in the city. Authority who had an obvious and ominous bias to her. He had to amend that belief in the slightest. Bias in the ranks was not obvious to the general public as it was to him. This bias was only so obvious because Faen had informed them of it. Still, it was a safe assumption to say that those with authority had a special distaste for the elves. It spoke volumes that if mentioned, no one truly doubted it. Unless, of course, you were Cassandra. 

He wondered if she was cold and if she knew to warm herself with her magic. They’d touched on the concept of warming, not burning, before, but could she manage? It’s better she didn’t he remembered. She could not risk drawing the ire of being a mage as well. 

Was she as dreadfully bored and worried for her safety as he was? Faen seemed to be a respectfully self-aware person, one who refused to be taken by whim and fancy no matter how appealing they were. No doubt she knew the way the wind blew, even in that dank cell. It was agonizing enough to contemplate her safety as it was to  _ him,  _ he couldn’t imagine what it was like for her to be living through it as she was. 

Sighing, he pressed his forehead into his palm, letting the chill of his hand radiate across his face. The effect it had was terribly insignificant. 

A light punch to his arm disrupted him from thought and he looked up to bark at whoever did it. Unsurprisingly, it was Varric, but Solas held his tongue once he saw that the dwarf was not looking at him. His eyes were glued to flashy man, dowsed from head to toe in brilliant colors from all over the spectrum of colors possible, and making his way through the lively crowd to their corner of the common area. Everyone perked up and tensed, Solas slamming his book shut and Cassandra’s whetstone slowing considerably as she dragged it across her blade. 

The man looked confident in his direction, head held high and hands graciously pushing people aside until he stood directly before their table. Everyone was slightly speechless and more than beyond cautious.

“Members of the Inquisition?” he asked, accent lightly tugging at the end of ‘members.’

Cassandra abandoned the whetstone altogether and gripped the hilt of her sword. “Yes,” she said firmly and with suspicion.

The man was not bothered in the slightest. He produced a tightly wound scroll from deep within his robes and handed it over to her. “Madame de Fer of the Imperial Court, First Enchanter to the Circle of Montsimmard, and leader of the Loyalist mages graciously extends to you, members of the Inquisition, an invitation.” he informs then. He bows, turns on his heel, and leaves before anyone can process anything.

Cassandra examines the invitation, her apprehension obvious. 

“Well?” Varric asks, “Seal too tough for you to open?”

The Seeker huffs and makes quick work of the seal, peeling it off and flicking it at Varric who is too absorbed by the scroll to care. Solas peers over his shoulder to read what it says.

“It says, ‘You are cordially invited to attend-’” she begins but Solas cuts her off.

“While kind of you to help, I am quite capable of reading it myself,” he assures her to which she blushes and clears her throat. 

The scroll spoke of an event being held at some noble’s estate and that members of the Inquisition were invited. He found it odd that there was no mention of the Herald until he read the last line.

_ I’ve heard of your predicament. We have much to discuss. _

Solas could not help how his stomach dropped. The words were ominous and too vague for comfort. 

“Could it be blackmail?” he asked aloud, “Some noble trying to use the Inquisition to leverage their power?”

Varric’s brows furrowed. His features were usually so kind but Solas saw how perfectly brooding suited him. “No, I can’t imagine,” the dwarf reckoned, “The Inquisition isn’t exactly a flaming beacon of power. Our pockets aren’t quite spilling over with gold. Our numbers aren’t that impressive. Plus, I fail to see how its smart business for a First Enchanter to ally herself with a Chantry off-shoot.”

“We are  _ not  _ a Chantry off-shoot,” Cassandra clarified.

“Oh! You’re right. We were just founded by the two hands of the Divine and have taken up the name of the organization that laid the foundation for the Chantry,” Varric said.

Cassandra groaned. 

Solas ignored them. “That man rattled off one of the host’s titles as leader of the Loyalist mages,” he pointed out, “I’ve never heard of such group but I do not need to. The name implies they see some shred of use in the Circles. Perhaps, whether we have no official ties to the Chantry or every obscure tie to them, it  _ is  _ smart business to ally oneself with us.”

“Is this common knowledge now?” Cassandra muttered in horror, likely referring to Faen’s imprisonment.

“Don’t kid yourself, Seeker,” Varric said, sighing, “The rats in a city this big know and actively participate in the gossip.”

The Seeker seemingly collapses in on herself. Her body hunches over the table, her forehead pressed to the cool wood, and her hands combing through her short hair. “Is it gossip if it’s true?” she asks.

Solas feels a raging roar of protectiveness lash out in his chest, the burn of it extending to his palms where his magical energy sparks. “Your denial of the truth is foolhardy and insulting. There is only one truth and that is that  _ your  _ Herald sits in a cell, victim of a plot devised to incite violence and action against her people for no other reason than a proclamation of power,” he spat. 

Faen was quickly becoming a sort of raw nerve ending.

Cassandra sat up, look in her eyes set in hard truth. “She wouldn’t  _ be  _ in that cell if she hadn’t committed a crime in the first place,” she rationalized.

Her stance was intolerable at the very least. He couldn’t even conjure up a word to label what it was at its most. Not a word in Common anyways. The Seeker’s view of things was too black and white for her to do anything but aggravate him. He was once permissible to her ways — she’d yet to shackle him for openly brandishing magic — but he now saw that glancing over an aspect of one’s self hardly made her an ally. He wasn’t sure what it made her.

“How convenient of you to draw a line between your routine killing of people and the actions that landed Faen where she is now. I’ll tell you, Seeker, for all your posturing and assurance, that line is indistinguishable. You kill because your opponent threatens your safety, yes? How different is that from what happened in the alienage? Do not think that in the short time we’ve traveled together I haven’t noticed how you’re the first to engage in battle,” Solas continued, voice rising, “Your eagerness betrays you. I would not have killed those men had Faen’s safety been assured. Can you say the same?”

Solas did not catch the slip until too late, when Cassandra’s eyes shot wide and Varric’s chair creaked as he leaned in. 

“You?” the Seeker asked, stunned.

_ Fenhedis.  _

Mythal had once reprimanded him for something similar, gave him a thorough lecture on how prudent it was to think before one spoke. He listened to precious little in those days, but Mythal’s words carried a weight like no other. From that point on, he made great efforts to check himself. Even with all his practice and composure, he had the occasional slip due to being so carried away. 

“I meant-” he started.

“Oh, no,” Varric drawled, hands up, “You aren’t smooth-talking your way out of this. Cat’s outta the bag, Chuckles, and it  _ won’t  _ go back in no matter how brilliantly you sing your song.”

Solas slipped his eyes shut, cursing his mouth. 

_What does this change?__  
_ In regards to Varric, likely very little. Varric seemed steadfast in the belief that the killings were justified. He would require explanation but Solas was near positive he would see reason, understand and celebrate how well-oiled the machine of their lie was.

Cassandra was the uglier other hand. A Seeker of Truth seemed more bound to the truth and the cold hard reality of it than anyone else. They saw the world in black and white, right and wrong, and he feared Cassandra would prove difficult because of it. Despite her incredulity regarding the larger plot at work, she seemed set on Faen’s freedom. That was seemingly their only commonality. It would prove to be his downfall, if his worries came true. 

He could easily see her running to the head of the guard, gloved finger pointing at him, and words laying out the accusation. Trade out the Herald for the true culprit and get back to saving the world. There was solace in the fact that she had no solid evidence, but that doubtfully mattered. 

In this instance, it seemed there was no real desire to have the right person to squish. This  _ was  _ bigger than any one person. Anyone with sharp enough ears would do. 

“Knowing who did it changes nothing,” Solas groaned, “I acted to save Faeneth’s life. We can defend her in the field, but not in the confines of a city? It was not murder. It was necessary to ensure both our safeties.”

Cassandra looked shocked for a moment more before her expression fell into one of confused anger. “And why is she the one taking the fall?” she demanded.

“Sheer stubbornness,” he mumbled, “The plan for her to turn herself in was entirely  _ her _ idea. She believed the mark would grant her some type of leverage a lowly elven apostate did not have. I had meant to coax her out of the idea, but she left before we had the chance to speak. Stubborn girl.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Cassandra leaned forward and exhaled slowly as if she were trying to calm herself. Solas had never considered her age before — her features were ageless — but she looked old in that moment, tired and scared and like the whole world was on her shoulders.

“Why even take the blame in the first place?” she asked.

“Spare the elves,” Varric suggested, “They were attacked in the alienage, the guards were killed in the alienage. The story writes itself.”

Solas nodded. “Someone else would be accused; someone else without so much as a chance to defend themselves,” he adds.

Varric and him share a look, one meant to convey a mutual understanding of what happened and a lack of judgment for it. Cassandra made various noises of distress as she worked things out in her head. She was unsettling.

Finally, she raised her head up. “What do we do about the invitation?” she asks.

Solas cannot believe the words that leave her mouth. A pragmatic gloss over of a burning truth was uncharacteristic of the Seeker. Maybe she was keeping her motives to herself or maybe she was truly choosing to drop it. His eyes widened but he did not press any further.

But that blasted dwarf did. “So...that’s it?” he asked, looking a little lost, “No mammoth lecture? No theatrics about the revelation?”

Cassandra glared at him. “ _ No, _ ” she said slowly, mouth emphasizing the word, “This...changes nothing. We are right where we started.”

Varric scoffs. “Not gonna lie, Seeker. I’m feeling a little singled out,” he said, pressed his hand to his chest in mock pain, “Your favoritism is slightly blinding. When  _ I  _ give you the whole story, filled with the truth and uncomfortable details, I’m being ‘difficult’ and taken prisoner. But when  _ he  _ informs us, on a  _ slip _ , that he’s the one who killed those guards, you just frown for a bit and say a prayer?”

Solas is blindsided by his words, feeling their impact directly in his chest. He thought the dwarf an ally, a comrade, but it sounded like he was deliberately trying to stir the pot. For the sake of riling up the moody Seeker no less.

Before the flame reached the abundant kindling of Cassandra’s rage, Solas sighed. “I wonder what the Maker says about giving into temptation?” he mused aloud, eyebrows raised. His knowledge of the Chantry and the word of the Maker was practically nonexistent. But one tends to pick up on things if to gather your meals you must pass by and through meager masses of frantic prayers and lofty chants of a sacred text.

“I see it more as a ‘giving into destiny’ type thing. Maker’s all about destiny,” the dwarf replied.

“That destiny being?”

“Pissing off the Seeker.”

Soon thereafter, Cassandra fell into defending her actions and pointing out Varric’s numerous flaws and inconsistencies to which Varric was well-hardened against and found great amusement in the rehash of an ancient debate. 

While Cassandra grew red in the face and Varric grew evermore bored, Solas snatched up the invitation and examined it closer. The hand-writting was immaculate and precise, quite deliberate in the flow and pain-stakingly labored over. Too labored over for an invitation that was to be tossed aside. The more he thought about it, though, he wondered if someone with nefarious intentions would fret over such a thing. It seemed too great of an effort to draw in such an underdeveloped force. 

Plus, he was an ever curious man, always willing to listen to what had to be said. Granted, there had to be a great distance, either physical or mental, between him and the chance. 

“I think we should consider the offer extended to us,” he said, slicing through Varric’s witty retort to something Cassandra had said.

The pair looked at him like he’d just said something reprehensibly outlandish. Both were so consumed by their bickering that they forgot the real issue afoot here. He waved the thick vellum around. “This salon of Madame de Fer’s,” he continued, “I think we should go.”

Varric took the invitation from him and examined it for himself. “I don’t know about this, Chuckles,” he said wearily, a frown on his lips, “I’ve never heard of this ‘Madame de Fer.’”

Another player was added to their circle of ‘snatch the invitation,’ Cassandra not-so graciously plucking the paper from Varric’s fingers and glaring at him as she did so. “Imagine that! Varric Tethras, world class know-it-all, hasn’t heard of just one of Orlais’ many thousands of nobles,” she gloated, “The shock.”

Children, that’s what they were. At each other’s throats every other word. Something shocking laid just beneath the surface of their dynamic and it was that, on paper, they seemed a perfect match. A hardened Seeker of Truth and a dashing rogue storyteller with lips as loose as laces on a wedding night. But they were like oil and water, a mix that could never be by their very nature. 

“ _ I’ve  _ heard of her, not that you care,” Cassandra continued, “She’s not exactly an orthodox member of the nobility, seeing as she’s a mage. Neither is she an orthdox mage, being that she voted against the notion to rebel when the vote was called.”

“Are mages even allowed into the nobility?” Varric questioned.

“Technically, no. There have been exceptions. I suppose she’s considered a noble under the circumstances,” she said, “I’ve only heard mentions of her. I know she’s the mistress of a man on the Council of Heralds and that she has a great deal of sway with the court because of it.”

Her words convinced him to attend more than they dissuaded him. The idea of getting into bed with someone loyal to the Circles was not a flattering one, but Solas was rational man, one able to push aside the discomfort to see the truth of the situation. Truth, in this situation, was that if there was so much as a chance at gaining the support of someone with such connections, it was worth the risk of the encounter going sour. For Faen’s sake, he had to try.

“We are strong and able. We have an inkling of an ambush. They cannot best us if we’re sharp and careful,” Solas asserted, “We should go. Unless the two of you prefer to grow fat and lazy? Leave Faen’s rescue up to those we do not know, cannot trust?”

When they weren’t bickering, Cassandra and Varric could make a trustworthy team. The fact that they turned to one another for assurance spoke volumes. 

“We can trust Leliana’s people,” Cassandra objected, “But I would rather us handle this.”

-+-

A canine pierces the flesh, sinking in deep enough to send a sharp spark of pain up her arm. Copper blooms on her tongue, rousing her dulled taste buds with something other than the taste of longing hunger. She’s repeated this process every few hours, sinking her sharp canines into the fleshy part between her thumb and forefinger, and suckling on the blood. It keeps her sane. It occupies the time when she’s not asleep, gives her something to focus on other than her inevitable demise. 

Faen’s tongue lashes across the fresh wound a few times before she’s had her stimulation for the hour. She releases the grip on her hand and lets it fall to her side, to the floor. Knuckles roll across the cold, dirty stones of the ground and she frowns. 

_ I could go to sleep... _ she thought.

_ You just woke up. _

How absurd of her to believe she could find refuge in her dreams. Sleep in the cell was never deep with the sounds of wailing prisoners, constant rattling of the bars, hourly check-ins by the guards. Sometimes she would drift in far enough to reach the Fade, but what awaited her was ghastly.

_ Wasting time...you’re wasting  _ time.

Hands reached down from the hole in the sky and grabbed whatever they could. Their fingers were like the gnarled roots of an ancient tree and sank into everything. Stone would crumble as if it were of sponge, wood would splinter and rot as if centuries had passed, bones would be crushed like ants under those fingers. When the hands grabbed all they wanted, the Breach grew larger. Tore across the sky as if someone were in the process of ripping it. Whispers infested every corner of the world, their voices too rushed and soft to catch much of anything. Then bodies fell. Plummeted to earth and crumpled and shattered upon impact. 

Her calling was somewhere far beyond this cell. Yet she was stuck here, unable to find the light to crawl towards. They kept her fed, she only nibbled, but she felt as if she were wasting away and her life would end here. A tad bit dramatic, she thought, but then the reality of the situation came crashing down over her. She’d been abandoned. The mark could not save her. The world would end. 

She had not received any visitors, there was no mention of counsel, the guards ignored her requests for any piece of information they could spare. It felt as if the world had forgotten her when moments before, it was as if everyone in the world were staring at her. 

Sighing, she closed her eyes and prepared to sleep again.

“You’re the all touched Lady Herald, yeah?”

Faen ignored it. The hunger and boredom and sleep deprivation had all mixed to create a wonderful illusion.

“Oi! You fuckin’ deaf?” 

Her eyes split open. Greeting them was the dim sight of the stones overhead coated in moss. She turned her head slightly. 

There, hunched over and reaching through the bars, was a bulky form. 

She shot up and raced over to the form, not caring that her movements were too abrupt and disjointed. If she were in the right mind, she would have realized she risked scaring away this mystery. 

But whomever they were, they remained, and when Faen was close enough, she could see it was a woman, young like her and pretty. Her face was split with a stupid grin.

“You glow, right?” she asked.

Her accent was certainly Ferelden.

“What?” Faen whispered.

The girl rolled her eyes and snatched up Faen’s hands. Still uncertain if this was some thick mirage or an actual occurrence separate from her list of ailments, Faen did not tense and recoil. The hands around her wrists certainly  _ felt  _ real. 

Mystery girl shook them in her face. “ _ These!”  _ she exclaimed rather enthusiastically, “They glow, yeah?”

Faen pulled her right hand out of the girl’s grip and wiggled the fingers of her left. “This one,” she informed her.

This intrigued the girl. Her eyes, even in the dimness, seemed to sparkle and glow as they drank in the sight of her hand. Thumbs as rough as rocks kneaded the flesh of her palm, disturbing the mark and causing Faen to hiss and jerk back. 

“Oops,” the girl muttered with a heave of an uneasy sound that Faen guessed was a chuckle.

Unable to believe the sight before her, Faen simply stared at the girl. She wore the guard’s leathers, even had the fancy pauldrons adorning her shoulders. But...she lacked the resolute hardness of the guard. She was not the mysterious voice who informed her of the plot either.

“What is this?” she hissed, massaging her sore hand.

“No grand e‘scape, I can tell you that,” the girl said, repeating that strange sound. It was definitely a laugh. “ _ But  _ I have a proposition for you, Lady Herald. One you’d be a daft tit to turn down!”

The girl went silent, the air filled with a weird hint of something that Faen felt was suggesting the girl was awaiting a response. But what she said didn’t exactly warrant a response, so Faen thought. “Am I supposed to guess?” she said, growing impatient with her silence.

“Oh, yeah! It’s all screamin’ loud in my head, goin’ like  _ HWOA _ , thought I said it outloud,” the girl said. She shifted beyond the bars, the slant of light creeping in through the small window across from her cell catching straw colored hair and the tip of an ear. An elf. Faen felt a mix of emotions. An elf was unlikely to do the bidding of those hostile to them, but that did not make her a friendly face. What she could see of it.

“From all the voices, small and big, some really loud, others really quiet, some kinda silky, some kinda rough like sand,” the girl said, seeming to speak at a million miles a second, “I hear you’re up shit creek without a paddle, yeah?”

Faen snorted. Quite the understatement. Her humor turned sour, but her mood remained at a steady constant. “I hope this is me without a paddle…” she mumbled, unsure how much she’d remain sane if this was the reality  _ with  _ the paddle.

“Right, right,” the girl said, shaking her head, “Sounds like you need a little...cheering up.”

True, but it wasn’t something that Faen deemed a priority or had even really deliberated on. In the days since she’d last taken a breath of fresh air and had her freedom, she had grown disturbingly used to the idea that she would never leave these stone rooms. Did not mean she was content, she was just...tired of allowing hope to stubbornly stamp around like an angry child wanting their way. The gnawing of it made her feel horrible. It had no place in such offensive uncertainty. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah! I’m sure you’ve heard that one of them stuffy guards up and died on everyone…” the girl giggled like it was the greatest thing to ever happen.

It couldn’t have been farther from the truth. The second the words fell from her mouth, Faen’s stomach about turned inside out. Yes, she had given up hope, but the carcass of it had remained untouched. Those words picked it up by the throat and slung it around like a toy. 

“ _ What? _ ” she gasped.

“‘Es dead!” the girl cheered quietly, “Say he was poisoned.”

Faen fell back on her rear. The beam of light caught the side of her face and the girl groaned.

“Shite…” she moaned, “You’re an  _ elf. _ ”

If she wasn’t so caught up in the horror of the situation, of the visions of her beatings and torture, she would’ve fired back with something smart. She couldn’t muster much more than what she gave.

“Fuck off,” she heaved as if she’d just been punched in the chest, “This is…”

“Hilarious!” the girl squealed.

“No!” Faen groaned, “This is beyond words! No fucking doubt they think it’s some sort of retaliation from the elves or the Inquisiton... _ Fenhedis.” _

Silence bloomed once more while Faen’s thoughts grew louder and more frantic. 

“Well...the Friends of Red Jenny wanna help,” the girl finally said.

Her words might as well have fell on deaf ears, as Faen hadn’t the faintest idea of who these Friends were. She peered at the girl through her fingers. 

“Listen, I want that hole in the sky to fuck off to oblivion like everyone else,” the girl said, “And from what I’ve heard, ain’t no way that’s happening without you.”

Faen chuckled darkly. “Oh, how wonderfully that fact works in my favor…” she noted. The girl ignored her.

“Can’t get you out of this pickle,  _ nooo,  _ but the Red Jennies can do what we do best,” the girl promised.

“That’s wonderful, but for all I know, your specialty could be substituting salt for sugar in pies on a Tuesday,” Faen pointed out, not feeling too splendidly about the aid she promised.

The girl, even in the darkness, lit up and lifted her arms high. “Hit the nail on the head perfectly!” she exclaimed. 

Faen grumbled. “What the hell does that mean?” she whined, not wanting to know.

“We do little things for little people, by little people. We make a right good mess of things. Whole lots of  _ boom, ching, pow  _ but none of the gore. Get a few snickers in and the littles go wild,” the girl said proudly, “Iss good work. Fun, innit? Stick it to the man without  _ sticking  _ it to the man? All about the knob crushing, minus the knob crushing.”

She questioned her own sanity. Words came out of her mouth, filled her ear with sound, and they  _ were  _ words, but...they made no sense. It felt like they should have, maybe they were on the brink of meaning, but they wouldn’t take the jump…The lack of proper nutrition and virtually no sleep did not help in the slightest in terms of comprehension.

“Was that Common?” Faen wondered.

The girl stuck her tongue out. “Oh, am I ‘posed to speak  _ elveny  _ for the  _ elf _ ?” she mocked.

Faen frowned, that impatience bubbling up again. “Ever stood before a mirror and wondered why your ears are so pointy? It’s because you’re a filthy fucking elf like me,” she spat, “I don’t have time for you to spout nonsense. Spit out your offer or go.”

“Seems to me like you’ve got all the time in the world,  _ Lady Herald, _ ” the girl said, “Sure has made you grumpy...anyways, the Red Jennies want to make your boogeyman less..boogey.”

Finally, a string of sense. Somewhat. Faen was beginning to feel it brush up against her fingertips. “And who is my boogeyman?” she asked, deciding to tug at it to unravel it further.

“I guess the guard, yeah? Got some  _ scary  _ judge, ooo, who’s fatter ‘an a pig and shits all over like some tot with a big mouth. Likes to say stupid things about you with it.”

Faen’s smile is sad and bitter. As she suspected, the slander had already begun and it was out of her hands. “I’m sure he does. Touts them as the solid truth when I haven’t spoken to anyone about what happened since I turned myself in. Typical,” she laments, punctuating the end of her sentence with a huff. 

There’s some part of her that writhes in agony at the things being said about her, about the lies and purposeful slander used against her. She worries for the reputation of the Inquisition and considers the immense damages already done. Another part is numb to it, playing in an illusion that she was above the words of some hateful human. Normally, she would be. She considered herself an expert in the art of masterfully shrugging off heavy words. Not now, not when the stakes were too high, and not when there was more tacked onto her than just herself. 

“I never even told them my name…” she whispered.

“Like they needed you to tell them to know,” the girl scoffs, “Please. Juvinel.” 

“Juvenile.”

“Juvinel.”

“Want my help or not?”

Faen sighs and presses her forehead against the wall. The cold of the stone is nice. “Yes,” she admits and the girl hums.

“Jennies are everywhere in the city. Got a handful scrubbing floors in the guard and one or two runnin’ papers for the judge,” the girl says, “Right shame if someone forgot to put out a sign that the floors were wet...maybe sticky with polish...or if some documents went missing, a few names switched out here and there…”

The suggestions sounded promising. Almost. “I fail to see how this helps me,” Faen conveys.

Her guests groans. “Maker’s balls, do I have to spell everything out for you?” she huffs, “Guard captain up and slips on wet floor, he’s knocked down a few pegs, and he’s  _ a person.  _ Big scary judge makes a mistake with somethin’ as simple as paperwork and he’s no longer scary, just big. What they say about  _ you  _ no longer seems so...important. Just undermine ‘em enough to make it seem like they aren’t half as knowy as they seem.”

Pieces fall into place. Something clicks. The words make  _ sense.  _ Not a perfect harmony, more like an uneven and roughly stitched together jumble, but it’s cohesive. 

“You’ve got the makin’ of someone big and you already forget that the small things matter,” the girl continues.

She was right. Faen isn’t sure how it all fits into place, doubts the weight of the little things, but a single snowflake can break a branch.

“Who are you?” Faen asks.

“Uh...a Red Jenny?”

“ _ The _ Red Jenny?”

“Nah, just one. Sera.”

“Sera…” Faen said, rolling the name around in her mouth, “Do it. Let your Jennies do what they do best.”

Sera cheered quietly. Somewhere off in the distance, a door slammed and it alarmed them both. “Well, gotta go. Don’t wanna risk it, y’know?” she says and stands. She leaves but she stops in the door, turns back.

“Oh, and, Lady Herald? Chin up. It ain’t all roses and sunshine, but it certainly ain’t all thunder and rain.” Sera said and she was off. 

-+-

Ah, how little the tastes of the wealthy changed over the ages. The world around them could become incomprehensible but the wealthy and powerful would remain the same. It was reassuring in a sense. 

It was decided the group would attend the salon the previous day, but they found themselves at a loss when they had no idea how to contact their host to inform her of their arrival. Turns out, that was some frivolous technicality. Early in the day, a large carriage arrived, drawn by burly horses with glossy coats of midnight. After a thorough interrogation of the driver by Cassandra, a drawn-out inspection of the vehicle itself, and a handful of minutes of awkward silence as the Seeker stared down the driver, it was deemed safe enough to board. Solas could have told them that nearly an hour before, for he’d sent out an exploratory arm of magic to detect any magical tampering and residue. He found nothing.

The exterior of the carriage had been a sight to behold with swirls of filigree carved out of wood and molded with a thin layer of polished gold. Protruding from either side of the door leading into the interior were small lamps that swayed in the breeze and had their light source fueled by reserves of magic. The interior was splendid as well. Plushy seats upholstered in deep red velvet, curtains of the same material gracefully swept back from the small windows with thick cords of decorative ruched tie-backs. The walls of the carriage were painted a pristine white that seemed to glisten in the faint light of the lamp overhead. Of course, it too was fueled by magic. 

The journey to the Ghislain estate took nearly all day. They did not arrive until nightfall, but the darkness did not rob the estate of its grandeur and decoration. 

A footpath greeted them at the place they were deposited, the length of it lined with ornate lamps with the similar magical charge. They light they threw out was delicate. Lamps wandered off through the landscape at calculated intervals to showcase the mastery with which the grounds were kept. Flowers of all varieties inhabited the gardens but the overwhelming presence was that of a flower Varric pointed out to be Andraste’s Grace. It lightly perfumed the air. 

The Ghislain estate was massive, though decidedly less so than Solas had imagined it would be. He suspected it was a winter home. 

As they neared the entrance, two stone lions, their maws wide open in a ferocious roar, greeted them. Retainers stood on either side of the door to greet guests. The three of them gave them pause and Solas feared there might be conflict until Varric flashed them the scroll. They could not deny them then and hesitantly ushered them in. Solas felt their cold stares into the center of his back. It hardened his resolve, pulled the corner of his mouth into a smirk. Little things.

The halls were grand and filled with the faint sound of violins playing away at an appropriate tune. Solas felt...strange as they walked among them. Panel after panel of walls were lined with indications of wealth, from commissioned portraits to exotic pelts. What was this in his chest?

He closes his eyes and sees the visage of wisdom in his mind, swaying as if any corporeal force had an affect on it.  _ You miss this,  _ it whispers.

Yes, in many ways he does. Even when he shed off the thousands of layers of this decadent power and swore his life to the pursuit of freeing his people, he could not shake his affinity for the finer things. Centuries of opulent wealth spoiled him. Memories of one particular evening when he acquired a famous vintner's entire inventory of an elusive and fabled rare wine, the name of which he couldn’t recall, and filled the pool in the main hall with it ran through his mind. The screeches of laughter and sinful indulgence in that pool...he took many a slave in that wine-filled pool that night, ruined many fashionable and expensive garments, and spent more coin than should have been allowed. After he’d had his fill of the wine, he held an impromptu ball and took even more slaves, ruined even more clothes, spent even more coin. Of course, age moved him far away from such extravagances, but he did miss cloaks lined with lynx fur and belts of heavy gold. He no longer cared for them to be encrusted with precious gems.

Near the end, before he fell into uthenera, he dressed and carried himself much like he did now. Humble and unassuming clothes and demeanor. The lynx fur had been traded in for red fox fur. Thin strips of worn leather traded unfairly comprised his belt now. 

_ I miss prosperity but do not mistake that nostalgia for a longing for excess. _

Solas liked who he was now, especially without all the ornamentation. He could look at himself and say, ‘yes, this is a man I am proud of,’ as opposed to the man he was before. The man he was before was little more than a child, salivating at the prospect of the next conquest and playing with concepts he couldn’t unravel until too late. A lack of purpose can lead the most promising of men astray…

After venturing through the many halls, passing by many flamboyantly dressed individuals hiding behind masks, they arrived at the ballroom. It was not the affair Solas expected. The chatter was light, the proceedings strangely subdued. No one seemed all too bothered by their presence. The few glances they got seemed curious, but Solas could not tell through the tiny slits in their masks.

“Went to a few gatherings like this in Kirkwall,” Varric said, “Not the liveliest parties ever. Not much difference here either, it would seem.”

“No…” Solas agreed. He scanned the crowd as if he knew what he was looking for. 

Cassandra and Solas stood together near a lightly tinkling fountain while Varric went off to procure refreshments. The two of them spoke about their mysterious host until he returned. The Seeker had requested a glass of white wine while it appeared Varric sipped on something the color of amber. Brandy, surely. 

It was uncomfortable to be so unsure of their place in a crowded room, more so in one that was so quiet. Voices rose to a whisper at best and Solas felt like their tones could not lower to such a level. 

Varric and Cassandra had sparked a conversation on the fashion in the room when Solas zoned out. His vision went fuzzy as he stared off at a wall hung with tapestry. From the brilliant manes and the blinding halos, the tapestry merged Orlesian history with Chantry stories. 

Longing as heavy as a tired head weighed on him. Longing to have Faen at his side, to turn to her with a small, sly smile and ask what she thought. He wondered at her insight. She knew more than most Dalish did on the Chantry, but hers was an interesting perspective in that she wasn’t a fan of it. Most conversation surrounding the Chantry was directed by those who  _ believed _ the Chant of Light. To have someone know so much, yet care so little for it was...pleasant. 

He could hear her voice. 

_ Andraste has interacted with every established nation in Thedas, hasn’t she? Busy woman indeed. How did she find the time to be purified in the flames and ascend to the Maker’s side, I wonder? _

It felt wrong to not have her here. This was Inquisition business, afterall. They had followed her command since the beginning and now the three of them were without her. Not that they weren’t able to make decisions and act alone. It just felt so...strange to not act under her command. 

Would she drink, he wonders? Would she enjoy herself? No matter her opinion on the gathering, she would certainly prefer it over her current situation.

His throat feels dry as he contemplates what she was doing now, detaches himself from his company in search of a refreshment. Before he can take two steps, a masked man slices through the crowd, his aim unmistakable. Solas pauses as the man stops right before the three of them. As is the way of things, the rest of the guests had some sort of eerie sense that tingled at the way the man moved. The crowd moved back, made space for whatever conflict was moments away from taking place, and their chatter was silenced with a harsh shushing sound. 

“Inquisition,” the man said, the lower half of his face free from the confines of a mask, “Where’s your lovely Herald?”

The three of them shared uneasy looks, one that pulled Solas back to them, and appointed a speaker. Cassandra stepped forth, chin held high and chest puffed. A flicker of fear rose up in him as she puffed. He was certain her well-worn, borderline ratty, doublet would bust if she demonstrated anymore. The doublet did a lovely enough job of masking any indication of her breasts and presumably she wanted to keep it that way. 

“She is indisposed at the moment,” the Seeker said tactfully. Her tone was a tricky one, one that could easily tip over into aggressive and confrontational. As it stood, it was irritated.

The man scoffs. “I ‘eard that she’s locked up in a cell, awaiting trial for  _ murder _ ,” he spits. Spits it like it’s so unheard of revelation. The crowd watching them shuffles uneasily. The distinct lack of gasps and whispers suggests this is common knowledge.

Solas clenched his jaw and looked away, not trusting himself to hold his tongue. 

“No doubt you’ve heard a great deal,” Cassandra says, “All of you have. I wonder if you can discern the truth through all the gossip?”

The man chuckles lightly. “There is a truth to discern?” he asks evenly and spreads his arms wide, “The truth has been laid bare before us all. There is nothing to look for. I find it appalling that the Inquisition willfully ignores that truth. Perhaps the Chantry was right. You  _ are _ just a crew of heretics, taking advantage of the chaos in the world…”

Solas rolled his eyes.

_ The only thing appalling here is the ease with which you accept the most readily available excuse. _

But Solas was more aware of how these types of people worked. Afterall, he was once so embroiled in it. All those centuries ago, Solas could effortlessly see himself acting as this man did. The rich and powerful were not trembling damsels, clutching at their pearls in fright at the suggestion of a rebellious streak. Nor were they daft enough to believe all they heard. Power and coin secured their safety and their certainty. Beyond that, they did not care. Oh, how it served them well to exploit the most sensational rumor, though. This man likely threw around these accusations because he looked good while doing it. Because it would stir fear in the lesser nobles, those more susceptible to the convenient lies of those above them. 

This man hid behind his mask. The gold of its face empowered him. Ruffling the feathers of an infantile force was easy when one wore something worth more money than the Inquisition currently had. Ruffling feathers was easy when so much was below them.

Varric steps forward. “You lookin’ for an argument, buddy? Lady Cassandra will happily oblige, but I think it’s textbook insanity to argue with someone whose head is crammed so far up their-”

With the wave of his hand, the masked man dismisses Varric entirely. “I do not believe I was talking to you, dwarf. Grow a foot or two before you speak to me. I like to look my foe in the eyes before I strike them down.” he remarked.

The room went still. This world was so saturated for hatred for the elves that distaste for the dwarves was glanced over. In all his travels, dwarves had been treated as equals, never a derogatory statement pertaining to their race uttered. To hear something, something that seemed so insignificant but carried a heavy weight, such as that be said with such assurance...Solas was shocked. As was Cassandra. Varric, on the other hand, seemed unfazed.

When Cassandra collected her jaw from the floor, she closed the distance between her and the man, her fists clenched at her sides so as not to hit him.

“How dare you!” she screamed.

A door slammed somewhere above them. The tension did not fade, but the attention moved elsewhere because of it. 

“Picking fights again, Richard?” a smooth, velvety voice called calmly, “How typical.”

A woman of rich umber skin descended the staircase at the center of the room. Her dress, a slender form-fitting garment with billowy puffy sleeves that looked like clouds, shifted as she moved, the loincloth skirt falling aside to reveal powerful clothed thighs. Her hennin resembled horns clad in silvery brocade. When she hit the floor, the sound of her boots clacking against the floor was the only sound in the room.

“Unfortunately, dear, I will not tolerate the use of such language in  _ my  _ house, to  _ my  _ guests,” she said firmly, yet there was a venomous and deceiving sweetness in her voice.

Solas could see her clearly now. Her features were sharp and prominent, the most striking feature being the edge and height of her cheekbones. The woman’s eyes were keen and cold. But her lips held a delicate, cunning smile. 

“Madame Vivienne,” the masked man began, “I refuse to believe you willingly invited such criminals into your home!”

Richard raised a hand and pointed at the trio.

Madame Vivienne snapped her fingers cleanly and Richard’s entire hand was encased in a glassy block of ice, the weight of which forced him to drop his hand at his side. Shocked cries and stupefied gasps filled the room, while Richard stared in shock at his frozen hand.

“Believe it,” the Madame commanded. The ice crept up the man’s arm, spilled across his chest and shoulders, and quickly engulfed him entirely. Where an animated man once stood, there was now a frozen mannequin. 

She turned to the trio and flashed them a pretty smile. “You are the wounded party, I find it fitting that you decide what is done with him,” she said.

The three of them looked at one another. Varric mouthed something awfully similar to ‘what the fuck,’ while Cassandra and Solas wondered if they were living in a shared dellusion. The Seeker and Varric were just as stunned as the crowd. Solas was as well, but he overcame his shock within a matter of moments.

He thought hard about what Faen would do until he realized he had no earthly  _ idea  _ what she would do. Faen had not established herself as either merciful or vengeful. She went out of her way to help those in need, but that was hardly applicable to this situation. Her compassion seemed conditional. 

No matter what she would do, this moment was likely to define the Inquisition. In that moment,  _ he  _ had the power to shape the perception of it. It was daunting, but a god who led rebellions against the most powerful people alive did not quiver at the prospect of a daunting task. 

“Release him,” Solas called, voice bellowing in every corner of the room.

He partially expected resistance from Madame Vivienne. A snide comment on how she didn’t have any particular interest in what an elf had to say. Or that Cassandra would speak up and disagree. But neither happened.

Madame Vivienne quirked a thinly plucked, carefully maintained eyebrow, amusement in her eyes, but did as he requested. With another snap, the ice fell away and the man was free. His eyes were the size of saucers and looked as if they were seconds away from rolling out of his head, onto the floor.

“You walk away with unharmed, save for your pride, all at the behest of the mad-dog Inquisition,” Madame Vivienne articulated cleanly, “Do use your second chance at life to do something worthwhile and stop ruining my parties, yes? It’s dreadfully unbecoming.” 

The man couldn’t remove himself from the ballroom any quicker. In the blink of an eye, he had moved from the spot he was previously frozen in and was out the grand oak doors opening out into the labyrinth of halls. Nervous ramblings bubbled up as people questioned what was to follow, where should they look, what should they do. There was no protocol for the host entombing a guest in ice and promptly sparing their life at the request of the spurned party of low standing. 

Madame Vivienne was unfazed by the ordeal, not even slightly. Her smile remained intact, as was her grace, and hospitality. She twirled to address her audience. “Do enjoy yourself, my dears,” she cooed, “I shall return to you soon enough.”

The Enchantress threw a look over her shoulder, beckoning the trio to follow. With that, she took up a brisk pace and exited the ballroom. She lead them down numerous hallways that wound so cleverly that Solas wondered how anyone could ever make sense of them. Clearly, Madame Vivienne could make sense of them. She navigated the labyrinth expertly. Eventually, the Madame was satisfied enough with the distance from curious eyes and ears and stopped at a slightly ajar window. She poked her head out into the cool night air and breathed deeply.

Cassandra pushed forward to her side. “Impressive display,” she commended.

“Thank you, my dear,” the Madame said, not looking at who spoke, “Though, word of advice: do not give the eager and famished the opportunity to pounce on you like what transpired in the ballroom. You laid yourselves bare and that is as equally unbecoming as it was of the marquis to provoke you.”

“Laid ourselves bare?” Varric questioned, audibly confused, “We were approached and berated. If I remember, we were just minding our own business, existing peacefully in our own private corner of hell. Until jackass mouthed off.”

Madame Vivienne turned her gaze to him. Something simmered in her eyes. It was nothing comparable to anger or annoyance, more filled with pity and desire to guide. “Your Seeker engaged as if she could move the marquis from his position with mere words,” she said.

“A position he did not hold in the first place,” Solas spoke up.

Now the Madame’s eyes fell on him. It was different to be the subject of her scrutiny. Different emotions seemed to come forth, heavily guarded and dark, but a hulking shadow at the edge of a fire that was hard to miss. He did not like it. He did not like  _ her.  _ There was something sickening about how she played at being nice, and yes, Solas was comfortable suggesting her polite and inviting exterior was a facade meant to hide the extent of who she really was. Besides, she was the self-proclaimed leader of the Loyalist mages. There was plenty in the title alone that lead Solas to find her untrustworthy. Her position in the court, in the nobility did not help her cause in the slightest.

Solas knew what this was, knew the steps of this dance well because he had danced it many times before. 

“Yes, you are correct. The marquis regurgitates what sounds the most incendiary and provocative at the moment,” she confirmed.

“It was not my intention to rile him…” Cassandra confessed. The Seeker was a lithely cumbersome woman, one whose frame afforded her a great deal of power in the battlefield. But she seemed to shrink to half her size here. With the Madame in her element, Cassandra could not compare in size. The sight was rather sad.

“Ah, but intent is but a pebble in the pool. Little more than void in the grand scheme of things, especially the Game.” the Enchantress said.

“Madame Vivienne-” Varric started before she raised a hand to silence him.

“Please, darling, we can do away with the stiff formalities. I love courtly intrigue and decorum with all my heart, but I am quite tired of it tonight. You may address me as Vivienne,” she informed the group.

“ _ Vivienne, _ ” Varric corrected slowly, “Thanks for the lesson in dealing with stuffy nobility, it’s stimulating stuff for sure, but let’s cut to the chase. You invited us here for a reason. I’d like to know that reason before we start unpacking the art of debate, please.”

Vivienne would be shifty in her response, tailoring it to fit a narrative she thought they wanted to hear. This he knew. Thankfully, he was in good enough company to distrust her no matter how beautifully she sang. 

“Your goal is an admirable one. I wish to help, nothing more, nothing less.” Vivienne assured half-heartedly. Puzzling indeed. Did she truly wish to be seen through? Or was she so confident in their desperation that she could’ve said anything and they’d be sold?

No matter. Both answers annoyed him.

“No doubt you’ll prove yourself to be a snake in the grass. You’ve sniffed out the latest potential source of power and long for a taste of it,” Solas declared harshly, but he shook his head slightly. “As weary as we should be, I respect someone with such honed instincts. You see the Inquisition for what it could be. A rare gift indeed.”

Vivienne raised those plucked eyebrows once more, a sly smirk on her lips as she dusted away a nonexistent speck of dirt from her leg. “Ah, I’ve been caught. Whatever will I do?” she mocked, “Wonderful as your respect is, I’m afraid it matters precious little what you respect,  _ darling.  _ You need allies. You need political prowess. You need a reputation that doesn’t leave a lingering sour note in the mouth, that doesn’t reek of corpses in an alienage.”

The trio sucked in a deep breath in unison at the mention of the current problem. They all shared an uncomfortable look. 

The Enchantress pulled herself away from the open window and turned to face them. “At the moment, you have none of that. I aim to remedy that.” she affirmed.

“ _ How?”  _ Cassandra demanded, clearly agitated, “What can you provide?”

“The Herald has made a pure mess of things, that is certain. I’m certain you have people trying to clean it up, but how efficiently will they do so? How quickly?” Vivienne asked, “I hear the rumors on the tongues of the servants. They speak of corruption and plots. This is the cleaning solution we will mop the floors with.”

“Yes, but  _ how? _ ”

“My position in the court and Circle have provided me with many friends, many contacts. Lord Markus Eu’carvet has been appointed the judge on the matter and he currently stands as one of the highest judges in all of Orlais. The cases he sees...well, I’ve yet to see one of them avoid metastasizing into a nation-wide affair,” Vivienne said, “Empress Celene will certainly catch wind of this. She will likely be heavily, though unofficially involved in the entire process.”

Varric turned an unmistakable shade of white. Cassandra’s features hardened. Solas felt his heart plummet into his stomach. 

_ You should have kept quiet, foolish girl! You should have left things be, consequences be damned! You should have… _

Cursing Faen’s decisions was easy at first, until he realized it was not as simple as he originally thought. Wasn’t he doing the same thing? Doing the unthinkable, sacrificing  _ so much  _ for the sake of the people he loved? Faen had her convictions, as did he, and it was refreshing to see someone stand so firmly by them. This world was filled with people who talked a great deal, but when it came to action, were curiously silent and suddenly fell blind. Her efforts to spare  _ him _ , her people were admirable and selfless. 

_ You cannot afford to be selfless! _

Youth and passion got in the way of rational thought. She was the only person alive who could mend the sky, sew up the wound that threatened to rip across the world and drown everyone in blood. And she was  _ already  _ making sacrifices of herself. 

_ A good leader knows how to pace themselves. You leapt over being a shining beacon of hope to becoming a martyr within a matter of days and you didn’t even know it.  _

Faen had skipped entire blocks of steps in her lifetime as a leader. But was she a leader? In all but title, yes. The mark thrust her into a position of power and everyone looked to her. Now they could not, what with her locked behind stone walls. 

The thought of her flame being snuffed out prematurely ate away at him.

“Damn…” Varric shuddered.

“She is the Herald of Andraste!” Cassandra fretted loudly, “Do these people not care that she is our only hope?”

“You forget that only a handful of people have been privy to her abilities. A rather unsavory, untrustworthy handful in the eyes of the Chantry,” Vivienne said carefully, “Word has spread far and wide, but the people do not believe what they have not seen.”

Through his brooding and dreary mood, Solas found a small slice of comical irony. “Unless you are the Maker,” he mumbled.

His remark was ignored. 

“Then we prove her abilities,” Cassandra suggested with great certainty. 

“I do not think you understand just how thirsty for blood people are. While it is not necessarily a commonly held belief, hatred for the elves is a strongly harbored one,” Vivienne said, “Proving her worth to the world will only delay the inevitable. She will be spared to serve a greater purpose, exploited to no end, and then when her use has been deemed to dry up, she will be disposed of. It will make for lovely entertainment, I’m sure.”

Solas exhaled slowly through his nostrils. He was growing tired of the dark picture she painted. “Is there any point to this or do you enjoy fear mongering,  _ Madame  _ Vivienne?” he scowled.

Her features, once a cool unbothered mask, twitched with mild anger. It was so brief that Solas barely caught it, but he caught it and reveled in the impact the use of the title had on her. It wasn’t so much that she disliked the title, he was sure she quite enjoyed being addressed as ‘Madame,’ but that it was a direct violation of her request was the truly bothersome part. Good.

“Watch your tone,” she snapped, “You are, afterall, a guest in  _ my  _ house. We’ve all seen how poorly the turn-out is for the particularly rude.”

“Forgive me, Enchantress,” Solas mocked, “Please, go on weaving your tale of hopelessness and dour endings.”

Vivienne eyed him darkly. “Like I said,” she says slowly to enunciate every syllable, “I have contacts. I have the Empress’s ear. Imagine the things I could do with it.”

“Is...that a threat?” Cassandra asked skeptically. She looked as if she did not want to know the answer.

The Enchantress examined her cleanly kept nails. “No. It was a reminder, as well as a proposition,” she maintained, “Celene does not act unless she has solid evidence to support those actions. What I suggest is having your people gather evidence to support your claims and handing them over to a courier of my choosing.”

“You don’t believe the rumors?” Varric asked.

Scoffing, Vivienne waved her hand around. “Please, the only people convinced of the Herald’s supposed blood-thirst are the common folk,” she chirped, “The nobility have known for years which way the wind blew. Most of them are content to look the other way for the sake of lining their pockets with more gold. I, on the other hand, am not.” 

“Why?” Solas challenged.

“Believe it or not, I have a vested interest in keeping the world together. The threads keeping it together now provide no comfort. I quite enjoy comfort,” she replied, “You may treat me with all the skepticism you wish, darling, it does not change the fact that I come to you with a genuine offer. Consider that  _ I  _ have a great deal to lose by allying myself with this newfound Inquisition.”

What she had to lose was of no consequence to him. She was in a peculiar position to gain it back if she tried hard enough. 

_ One would think the leader of the Loyalist mages would stand to gain a considerable amount by allying herself with the Chantry affiliated Inquisition. Collars are hard to shuck when you have no desire to do so… _

Once more, the trio shared looks that spoke varying levels of acceptance. Varric was the least convinced of them all, it would seem, which was shocking. Solas already harbored a mounting distrust and distaste for the Enchantress — it should’ve been  _ him  _ expressing the greatest amount of resistance to her offer. Brushing aside his qualms had to be done, though, to continue with their goal. Vivienne’s offer was a priceless one, one that held hope in its arms like a soft swaddled newborn. Cassandra had said to trust Leliana’s people, and he did. But their efforts alone could only get them so far. Currently, even if the evidence the agents dug up was solid and damning, they hadn’t the leverage to have it matter. Hadn’t the means to throw them in someone powerful enough’s lap and be taken seriously. 

Sure, they had the hands of the Divine on board and spearheading the efforts of the Inquisition, but neither woman was in pristine standing with the Chantry. The Chantry was painting a grotesque picture of their involvement. Their relationship wouldn’t help them. Well, maybe Leliana had some good contacts in her repertoire, but they meant nothing if they wouldn’t even speak with her. 

Times were desperate and thus, required acts of desperation. Recruiting Madame Vivienne was one of those acts.

“Might we be able to discuss your offer?” Cassandra asked.

“Of course. Deliberation is sensible. I encourage it,” Vivienne said. Without further urging, she strolled further down the massive hall, stopping at a reasonable distance to rearrange a vase of brightly colored flowers. 

With her gone, they collapsed in on themselves, their heads nearly touching in the middle of the huddle. 

“Copper for your thoughts?” Varric asked.

Sighing, Cassandra mulled over her thoughts. “I...have heard tales of this Madame Vivienne,” she stated, “She  _ is _ deeply loyal to those she finds worthy. One of the few of the nobility to have never publicly betrayed those who thought her good company.”

“Ah, caught you there, Seeker. You said  _ publicly.  _ We should all know by now the kinda shit that goes on behind closed doors...” the dwarf reminded her, “The Enchantress has an image to protect. Seems like the kinda woman who would do anything to protect it.”

“And openly defending the Inquisition is protecting her image? She said so herself, it’s not exactly fashionable to join our ranks,” Cassandra said, “Solas, you said something about her being a snake in the grass. Do elaborate.”

Solas peered over Cassandra’s head to find Vivienne eyeing them. He frowned. “I have dealt with her kind many times. They’re all the same. Her aid will come with a price, that I am certain of,” he said slowly, still maintaining eye contact with her. She thought her glare could browbeat him into  _ something.  _

A god could not be bullied into anything.

“You’ve dealt with people of the court?” Cassandra asked hesitantly.

“Not in that vest…” Varric mumbled.

Another blasted slip on his part. He was making an uncomfortable habit of it. Thankfully, he  _ could  _ stuff this one back into the hole it came out of. “A figure of speech. My travels in the Fade have acquainted me with many types of people.” he clarified.

The answer was satisfactory enough that they did not pursue any further line of questioning, instead Cassandra voiced her support for having Vivienne join the fold and turned to Solas to gather his opinion.

“As much as I do not like it, we need her,” he solemnly admitted.

Varric frowned. “What about the cost? You said so yourself there’d be a price to pay,” he recalled.

“I do not claim to know her goals, but I am inclined to say it is a problem for another time,” Solas said, “For now, she is useful, more so than any of us could hope to be in this situation. The ends justify the means.”

Sighing, the dwarf gave into to defeat. Usually he was spirited about his opinions, sharing compelling arguments for his position. His lack of competent and animated reasons for not having the Enchantress join them was telling. Deep down, Varric knew she was their only hope. 

It was decided. They split, Cassandra’s voice booming down the hall to grab Vivienne’s attention and lull her back into the fray.

“Do we have an answer?” she asked cooly. 

“After weighing the pros and cons of an alliance, we hav-” 

“Your help outweighs the potential difficulty of you at the moment,” Solas interrupted. There was no use in drawn out explanations of things, “The Inquisition welcomes you.”

Vivienne smiled that pretty smile. There wasn’t a trace of deceitful kindness or manufactured emotion. Her pleasure with the outcome was genuine, it would seem. A glimmer of a person, someone with authentic passions and emotions, shone through for a brief moment. “Not a warm welcome, of course, but a welcome all the same. Excellent,” she beamed, “I will do all I can in the efforts to free our Herald. We will leave at the break of dawn. I have an apartment in the city that I believe you’ll find to be far more suitable than that drab inn you’ve had the misfortune of inhabiting. Until then, do try to enjoy the party with as little conflict as possible, darlings?” 

They returned to the party without issue, their reintegration into the crowd nowhere near as painful as anticipated. The stares were present, but most were fine to leave the three of them alone. Solas had a decidedly rougher time dealing with people when he wandered off on his own. Nasty looks were thrown his way, shoulders would violently bash him as he passed, the whispers hissed out under breath was too impossibly loud for him to be convinced they  _ weren’t  _ trying to force him to hear. 

He knew why. And it didn’t bother him. He would never give these puffy humans the satisfaction of seeing their actions wear on him, not that they ever did. This was all temporary. All of it. This knowledge allowed him to keep his head up.

The rest of the evening was uneventful and a touch boring. At some point during the night, he snuck off to roam through a small garden. Frayed edges of memories begged him to pull at them to unravel the story they wanted to tell, but he refused. Not only was this not the place, but he had a sudden loss of desire to indulge in the Fade for the moment. He was tired, so dreadfully tired, and wanted... _ rest.  _ Rest from everything. He did not want the weight of Faen’s fate sitting on his shoulders, did not want the hard rock of guilt for  _ everything _ to sit in the pit of his stomach, did not want to face the following day’s trials. 

For once, he did not want the memories of a life long since passed, of a people far beyond their days of glory to bother him. They were not a comfort tonight. 

Existing in the moment was a scarce desire of his. But he wanted it tonight. 

The smell of the earth and the sweet scent of white roses of Halamshiral blended beautifully and the pain of the loss of what Halamshiral must’ve been did not hound him. Instead, he liked the smell. His mind was empty. The sound of crickets chirping did not remind him of the long lost insects that sang at night in Arlathan. The breeze was cold upon his skin and he did not wonder the season the resting place of Arlathan currently stewed in. 

Sometime during his stay in the garden, his eyes had drifted close, his mind pleasantly empty, and his breathing soft. He felt the soft mimicry of Wisdom’s hand on his shoulder, gently jostling him awake. 

The party was still alive, but he could not return. He was tired. So hopelessly tired. 

A man in remarkably simple clothes showed him to his private room where he collapsed onto the bed. Before he drifted off to sleep, he had the urge to turn to look out the window. Sitting just outside, on the sill, sat a cat. Its black coat was glossy and almost aqueous, formless. Its green eyes seemed to glow as it gazed in at him intently.

_ Do not worry about the girl. Someone approaches who will see her through. _

He frowns.

_ Your words provide no comfort, Gitta. But that cannot be helped. Such is your nature. _

_ Such is my nature. _

  
  
  
  



	7. Looking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is really no excuse for this. None at all. I feel like a monster for subjecting the people who actually read this steaming pile of shit. Besides it being a piece of shit, it's a LONG piece of shit. I was at like 68k words before this chapter. After...we at 81k. Forgive me for the length and the quality.

“Get up,” a loud voice commands.

It does not jostle her like intended. The man’s boots were heavy on the floor, the sound of them echoing through the halls and focusing in her ears. His arrival was well anticipated. 

But his reasons for being here, for disturbing her, were a sickening mystery. Thus far, she’d been spared beatings. Oh, publicly, they would swear up and down that prisoners were never subjected to ritual beatings and torture. All talk. The screams and cries from other cells, from down the hall spoke of a different truth. Oddly enough, she had yet to experience anything besides neglect. She wondered if it had anything to do with the mark. But today could be the day the mark meant nothing. They could enter her cell, drag her down the hall and beat her senseless.

Or they could be escorting her to her own private execution, forgoing a trial completely. Considering that executing her without first making a show of her would not further their agenda, she did away with that thought. It seemed hard to accept when she sat cold, hungry, and bored in a cell for the past few days, but she knew this was not about  _ her.  _ This could have just as easily been any other elf with the misfortune of being swept up in something greater than themselves. She was not being punished for a crime, she was being punished for an offense she and millions of others had no control over, no say in, no way to change and that was being born an elf. 

Faen knew more details on what was really going on thanks to a few sparse visits by her strange friend who first warned her of a conspiracy. They were just as vague and mysterious as the first visit, but pieces of the mystery were chipped away at slowly by carefully crafted and hurried words. She now knew that the plot was concocted in a cauldron of hatred, seasoned by a despicable sadism, and plated without shame. 

Her visitor seemed to be speaking from undeniable proof and she trusted it. She only wished to know who this visitor was, who they were affiliated with, why they decided to antagonize  _ her _ with details that she was powerless to act upon. Time always seemed to run out before she could back them into a corner, scold them into  _ doing something _ . 

Deep down, though, she knew it was not a lack of time that prevented her from doing so. The fate she would meet here was not a pleasant one, but one that was fairly straightforward and not as big a headache as dealing with the world in its current state. Resigning herself to a definitive conclusion was...tolerable. More so than the alternative.

The silence and isolation of her cell welcomed such thoughts with open arms. Because it was easier? Or because their roots were genuine? She could not tell, did not want to be able to anyways. 

She rose from her cot and stumbled over to the cell door, her knees screaming in protest as she moved. The guard wore that typical, silver-plated mask that covered his entire face. The features etched into its surface were standard to that of the guard — lifeless and chiseled to perfection. It was easy to commit atrocities when you were faceless. 

“Arms out,” the guard commanded when she was close enough. He tapped the empty slot in the door. 

Obediently, Faen slipped her skinny arms through the space in such a way that the guard got pissy. He huffed as he twisted her wrists up, baring the pale, delicate flesh of her inner wrists up.

_ Oh. _

From somewhere at his side he produced a comically large pair of iron shackles. When he clasped them around her wrists, she had to hold back the urge to laugh. What was likely a snug fit for anyone else, particularly humans, was a graciously forgiving one for her. The cuffs were so large she was positive she could slip right out of them if she tried. She did  _ not  _ try. 

Unfortunately, her captor’s face was concealed entirely, so she could not tell if he noticed the fit, if it frustrated him as much as it amused her. 

In her opinion, the cuffs were uncalled for. Biased as that opinion may be, it was an absolute truth in its own right. A skilled rogue knew how to make every part of themselves a lethal weapon. Her frame was small, but corded with wiry, deceptive muscles. Her feet her quick and dripping in muscle memory of intricate dances to evade and trip up. Her thighs were powerful enough to land a devastating kick, elbows resilient enough jab so painfully one would double over in pain and be unable to breathe comfortably for hours. To top it off, she knew enough magic to be dangerous. But that was a total last resort. 

The cuffs in all their loose glory provided enough of a false sense of security for the guard to open the door and yank her out into the hallway. 

“Walk,” he grunted, forcing him in front of her. 

But...she...had no idea where to walk. He stood  _ behind her,  _ still as a rock, and giving no indication of where he wanted her to go.

“Forgive me, but it seems I’m at a loss. Is there some unspoken cod-”

The guard snarled at her sarcasm, throwing her forward so hard she fell to her knees. Pain shot up through her knees, into her hips, and her wrists burned from where she braced herself. The guard yanked her up seconds later and finally took the initiative. 

Their pace was brisk, but even then, their walk was one that seemed to drag on for forever. It was a straight shot, wherever they were going to, but the absence of turns and variation was maddening. Made the walk feel all that much longer. 

With such build up of anticipation, Faen half expected their arrival to be met with something extravagant. That was, sadly, not the case. The guard pushed past a heavy wooden door and threw her into a rickety chair that she feared would break apart if she moved around too much. 

Lighting in the room was like every inch of this place — dim enough for her to question the validity of what she saw. Elven eyes could see far better than human ones in such poorly lit conditions, but they did not account for the gooey haze that infested the room. She could feel the weight of it, the slime of it upon her skin. In a way, it brought back memories of the attack, what with those heavy hands around her throat. Except the hands were replaced by some disgusting  _ thing _ in the air. 

What she  _ could  _ make out was a long table stretched before her, empty save for a seat at the opposite end. A woman, as far as she could tell, occupied the lone slant of light in the room. She stood when Faen was seated, bowed her head to the guard.

“Thank you,” the woman said, irritation at the edge of her voice. Her accent was...strange. One that had rarely, if ever graced Faen’s ears. 

Her escort betrayed no sign of him acknowledging her. He stood by the door, head held high. The strange woman, whom Faen was just now seeing was  _ incredibly _ tall, waited for a moment, and when he did not act according to her unspoken wishes, she cleared her throat loudly.

“Thank you,” she repeated, “You may go.”

The guard jerked his head in her direction. His face may have been hidden, but his body language gave quite a bit away. He was defiant to her demands. “I was told to remain, to watch the prisoner,” he refuted. 

“She does not look to me to be the blood-thirsty harpy I’ve heard so much about,” the woman responded, “I believe I can manage.”

“Looks can be deceiving.” 

Heels clacked against the stone floor, the woman’s skirts billowing as she moved to close the gap between her and the guard. 

“Should I inform the courts that you’ve withheld counsel for this long? It’s taken me  _ days _ to get through your superiors. Mighty suspicious, if you ask me,” she said firmly and confidently, “And now you want to sit in on a private meeting where we discuss the details of our defense? You add such fuel to the fire.”

Clearly conflicted, the guard shifted his weight from foot to foot. The tension between them was thicker than Faen would have preferred. Tension that intense had a tendency to escalate. 

Finally, the guard relented. “I will be outside,” he grunted and exited the room.

This woman was clearly pleased with his decision. The tension faded from her shoulders and spine and her smile was small as she turned to Faen. Her large hands smoothed down her skirts. 

“Well,” she began, outstretching her hand in what Faen assumed was a handshake, “It is lovely to meet you, my Lady, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Faen gazed at her hand, noted how the bones of it were almost too big to fit under the skin. She did not take it. Humans had many customs that she knew of, but that did not mean she had to be respectful of them. The Dalish were far more reserved with strangers, extending their affections exclusively to those in their clans. 

“Ah, I’d forgotten,” the woman said, pulling back her hand. It did not shake her confidence in the slightest. “I do not deal with Dalish elves, well, at all. City elves are a wildly different breed than your kind, yes?”

Faen nodded slowly. Her curiosity as to who exactly this woman was was mounting. “Who are you?” she blurted.

“Illen Amell of Kirkwall,” the woman said, “I am to provide you legal counsel for this...ordeal.”

“The Hero of Ferelden traveled with an Amell. I do not remember her name,” Faen mused.

Illen let out a hearty bark of laughter. It was too loud. “Yes, that would be my sister, Synathra. She would not like that you don’t remember her name,” she said. After she calmed down her laughter, she pulled out the chair nearest to Faen out from under the table, and sat in it. 

Up close, Faen could see the kindness in her eyes, the adoration, and the sadness. Her features were worn and tired, but a bout of undying resolve and youth simmered just beneath the surface. 

“You seem too eager to be the court appointed counsel…” Faen mumbled. 

“Because I am not court appointed,” Illen said matter-of-factly, “Leliana sent word the second she caught wind of your situation. I owe her a few favors, as it stands. I would be nowhere near as accomplished a lawyer had I not had Leliana’s...talents at my disposal.”

“Where is Leliana?” Faen asked desperately. Leliana had an air about her, one that soothed all worries if she were your ally. Somehow, having her here would make things seem less dreary, convince her of a drop of hope. “I feel as if…”

_ I’ve been abandoned. _

“Surely, she’s on her way here,” Illen eased, “Things are hectic now, to say the least. Once again, ships are overflowing with the displaced and fearful. Every port on the Waking Sea is overburdened. Leliana is well-connected, but this transcends connections.”

Her head, suddenly feeling impossibly heavy yet eerily light, fell into her hands. Faen ran her fingers through her grimy scalp, cringing at the feeling of days worth of grime beneath her fingertips. 

Illen scoffed. “Maker, are those really necessary?” she shrieked. She reached out to rattle Faen’s chains.

“I’m practically feral,” Faen reminded her, though her voice was devoid of anything resembling a jest.

Her lawyer frowned and pursed her lips. “So I’ve heard,” she said smally, “About that, there are some things I need to clarify.”

Internally, Faen wailed in agony. Those words strung together in that order did not bode well. Up until now, Illen just sitting before her, opening herself up to provide help, all seemed too good to be true. Now it was on the verge of being confirmed. “...go ahead,” Faen permitted.

“The bodies of those men, they’re currently on a display of sorts,” Illen croaked, “It is regrettable that the people do not question the morality of it, but I can safely say that this display is in no violation of any existing laws, as I once thought.”

Years ago, when she was far younger and struggled a great deal to wrangle her temper, A’len taught her a neat trick. If her emotions were so powerful that they impeded on functioning, she was to take three deep, solid breaths and do something to ground herself. To this day, she still struggled to take her advice, but she took it now. Three slow, deep breaths, her mind trying hard to empty on the exhale, and the feel of her knuckles nearly popping out of place to keep her grounded. 

“And?” she finally managed.

“The people are sheep. They cannot see what lies before them, in plain sight. They’ve been fed a story, one that paints you as a hateful, sex-crazed deviant, and given a way to feel as if their judgments are their own,” Illen said, “Those judgements are not too kind.”

Faen expected as much. She gave them the rope to hang her. In all her travels, she had seen the ugly in people, but that was not her full tale. Despite the shape of her ears, many people had afforded her great kindness and care. In her heart of hearts, she knew the nature of people of people to be good. It would seem she was wrong. She felt like an idiot.

“But that’s beside the point. I did not bring it up to have your dreams implode,” Illen continued (which Faen gave a small huff at), “With people access to what happened, there’s been some scrutiny. Experts have come forward to voice their humble opinions. Unlike the rest, they seem to quite enjoy poking holes in the official story. In private circles, doubt smolders. There’s whispers of a cover-up.”

Faen did not like what she was getting at.

“A prominent researcher at the University of Orlais noted that star-shaped cataracts had formed on one of the men’s eyes. There was a burn at the base of his skull,” Illen said quietly. 

Faen glared at her, a threat in her eyes. 

_ Do not unravel what I cannot piece back together. _

Illen had a backbone, that was for sure, and Faen supposed it was better that she did. A lawyer too easily cowed by a raised voice, a dirty look, a bodily threat was of no use to anyone. Illen refused to back down from her line of questioning. “I’m no expert, but my sister is a mage. She had an accident when we were younger, ended up...killing our brother with a bolt of lightning. You  _ know  _ what this looks like,” she whispered. Illen drew closer, but Faen threw up her hands as a barrier between them. Her sudden move inwards did not startle her as much as the genuine concern in the other woman’s eyes. 

“What happened?” Illen pleaded.

She swallowed thickly. It was cruel to know, but refuse to acknowledge it unless she spoke it into truth. She would not give in, no matter how genuine the desire to help was. “What do  _ you  _ think happened?” Faen snarled.

Illen sat back in her chair, smoothed down non-existent creases in her sinfully simple skirts, and looked off in distant thought. “I see…” she said wistfully, tapping her fingers across the table surface.

“Will you use it against me?” Faen wondered aloud. 

The woman frowned, her expression troubled. “Pardon?” she asked, “What exactly do you think this is?”

Huffing, Faen dropped her hands to the table, the sound of the chains hitting its surface slightly jarring in their otherwise quiet conversation. “I’m not a fool. Am I supposed to blindly trust you because you throw around a spymaster’s name?” she retorted, “I believe your intentions are pure, to an extent, but at the core of it, I cannot trust you. Humans who live in huts, who grow just enough food to sustain themselves, who make their own clothes from sacks and scraps are usually content to treat my kind with decency, so long as it is established we mean no harm.  _ Your kind,  _ those with money, those with an ounce of power who live as far removed from the mundane squabble of simply getting by as possible, it  _ you  _ who pose the biggest threat to me.

“Your face is bare, but you still hide behind a mask. You extend to me your hand and expect me to take it so you can lift me up, but you could just as easily drop me for no other reason than to witness the fall.”

“It saddens me that your life has led you to that conclusion,” Illen said kindly and Faen wanted so badly to believe it, “I understand why you say that. I’ve built my practice on championing the underprivileged, the outcast, the oppressed. I’m almost always met with resistance of that kind, but I am more than willing to chip away at it to prove my care is legitimate. It is unfair of me to ask you to suspend your disbelief with so little reason to believe me, but…”

She knew what she was going to say and knew Illen was right. Knowing the truth of it did not make it any easier to accept. “We have no time,” Faen finished.

Nodding, Illen sighed. “Yes, unfortunately,” she said, “Trust me on this: I have documents, correspondence between those responsible for this mess, that prove a targeted attack.”

Faen perked up slightly. “How?” she immediately questioned. Illen’s means of obtaining these documents mattered little in the grand scale of things, but Faen supposed it would  _ have  _ to matter in some case. 

Illen stood from her chair and retreated to the opposite end of the table to dig through her bag. She produced a small pill of documents, bound inconspicuously by twine. She set the pile before Faen.

“Rowena passed them onto me. I’m at a loss for how she gathered all this in such a timely manner, but Rowena has her ways. I trust her and more importantly, your spymaster trusts her,” Illen said.

Her hands moved on their own, pulling at the string of twine to confront the  _ proof  _ of this injustice. She sifted through the papers, her eyes frantically scanning every word. From her rushed skim of the documents, there were definite traces of  _ something,  _ though there was nothing so direct as to label what was truly happening. “Is this enough?” she asked.

“It is a start,” Illen assured her, “There is enough here for even the most unshakable, ruthless judges and officials to question practically everything about what happened. Have you been mistreated in anyway? We can use that in our favor.”

_ Blasted. _

Perhaps she should’ve laid herself open for beatings, if Illen thought they would help their cause. “Hm. They’ve withheld meals and if they haven’t, they’ve been mere crumbs. They beat other prisoners, but thus far, I’ve been spared.” she said.

Illen frowned. “A calculated move. If they leave you alone, you cannot claim brutality and excessive force against them,” she mumbled.

“Would it matter? I did not think the accusations of an elf carried much weight.”

“No, they don’t. But beatings, torture leaves marks. Even the most biased judge can’t glance over a bruise or a cut. They surely couldn’t risk it,” Illen said, “I can say with certainty that the judge appointed to this case, Markus Eu’carvet, while duly noted as a conspirator  _ here, _ ” the woman pointed to ridiculously swirly named on the paper, “Will act according to the law.”

“How does that work? Adhering to the law, yet doing something like this?” Faen asked, befuddled at the hypocrisy.

Illen laughed. “What he does  _ in  _ the courtroom will be heavily scrutinized by his peers. What he does  _ outside  _ is  _ his  _ business. Presumably, we are none the wiser,” she said confidently.

“Unless we have the signed and dated documents proving a conspiracy,” Faen reminded her.

“Correct,” Illen said, “Celene has made it so that some protection under the law has been afforded to the elves, Eu’carvet cannot deny it.”

Celene’s efforts were laughable. She’d heard of the measures put in place, but such motions were facades to placate a scant few. Ask any elf and they would roll their eyes at her attempt. Question a human noble who pities the elves, hopes to gain some sort of influence with the Maker and they will sing Celene’s praises. 

“What do we do with this?” Faen eventually asked after she had finished examining what they had. 

“That’s the tricky part,” Illen groaned, “The Inquisition has no influence and it is very likely that Eu’carvet will throw out this information.”

Hopes dashed once again. It was better to keep them tamped down, like her magic. “I...Leliana knows people. As does Josephine,” Faen rationalized, “They must have  _ something  _ we can use.”

“Fear not, My Lady,” Illen assured her, “The two of them are renowned for their ingenuity. I would say another day or two before they get here.”

The title Illen used to address her felt like a mockery of sorts. It was too polished, too high on the ladder to be used to address her, a lowly elf. She was  _ not  _ a lady. She was a tired, scared girl, quivering somewhere deep in her soul with fear. 

“Do not call me that,” Faen requested curtly. 

Illen bowed her head. “I am sorry, I did not mean to offend. What shall I call you, then?” she asked.

“My name,” she stated plainly, “They will not spare me the honorifics as they tear me apart in court. I suggest getting used to calling me by the filth of what I am.”

“Alright, Faen.”

“Thank you.”

For the first time since the Conclave, a human made her feel like a person again. 

* * *

Faen had never understood the concept of foresight. At its core, it made a sliver of sense. But it was always just out of reach, an amorphous construct that was prone to slip through her fingers should she ever reach it. Because of her lack of understanding, she could not see the end of this ordeal. Even if she could, there were too many factors in the way, too many ways the outcome could be pulled this way or that. 

She knew one thing and one thing only: what happened to her would lay the framework for everything. The Inquisition, the elves, Orlais. 

It felt strange to be at the epicenter of such a momentous ordeal, but she reminded herself this wasn’t the first such time she’d been here. As the Herald of Andraste, she  _ held  _ all the power. As a prisoner, the power was quite far removed from her. There was no healthy balance in her life whatsoever. 

When she wasn’t squinting into foggy visions of the future, she was wallowing in how things would have turned out had Solas been in her place. She dwelled on that often. 

The matter would be simpler. All this effort to secure her freedom would likely not be extended to him. Solas was, in the long run, expendable in the eyes of the Inquisition. Faen would’ve fought tooth and nail to see him freed. In their private talks, the mulling over magical concepts with their heads bowed and their voices barely above a whisper to ward off curious ears, the rare expedition into her previous life ( _ never  _ his), she realized what an asset he was. Of course, she was biased. But that was besides the point.

They hardly knew each other, true, but Faen already felt a strong pull towards him. There was no use in fighting it, so she would give in, little by little until they were close. 

She rolled over onto her side to see Sera, hunched down on the floor and rambling away about something.

“Were you talking to me?” Faen asked.

Sera groaned. “Andraste’s flamin’ tits, I’ve been here for like ten minutes, and you haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” she screeched. 

Faen rolled onto her back once more. “No,” she said, “Why are you here?”

“To tell you that the little shite  _ worked! _ ” Sera exclaimed with great excitement.

It felt as if the girl were speaking to her through water. The words were garbled and hardly decipherable, Sera’s voice a faint tone through the tons of water which she spoke through. 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah! Cockcelt or whatever supposedly broke his ass on a right nasty fall,” Sera relayed with glee.

“Cockcelt?”

“Big guard man.”

A smile tugged at Faen’s lips as she imagined that horrible man’s face as he fell. There were certain people in life who seemed so indestructible, so solid in their place and Cauncelt was one of them. He could stand to be violently knocked down a peg or two. Even so, she could not see how this helped her, glorious as it was. She could not see a great deal of things apparently. 

“Got the fight beat out of you or what?” Sera suddenly blurted out, “You look… smaller than last time. Lady Herald ready to let them win?”

Faen ignored that. Fighting her claims would be more effort than they were worth, partially because she was right. Her meeting with Illen Amell felt like it took place years ago, but Faen supposed it was a day or so ago. During the course of their talks, Faen felt like that light at the end was in reach, felt like this was finally drawing to a sweet close. But that was then, this was now. Once more, the feelings of abandonment and indifference stewed about in her soul. 

Illen must’ve torn into someone about her meals because after they parted, three hefty, though bland, meals were stuffed under the slot in her door like clockwork. She had not touched them at all. She had hardly moved from her cot. A numbness unlike any other had settled in and rooted itself deeply in her. She did not want for things anymore, not like she did in the days prior. Where she once yearned for the vibrating, glossiness of Gitta’s coat beneath her fingertips, she now yearned for an unending sleep. 

“You should join the Inquisition,” Faen deflected. She wasn’t sure why she said it or where it came from. 

“What?”

“Yes. The Inquisition needs people like you. People who are good on their word and can get things done,” she continued. 

“Sorry, I don’t give my help to  _ loser quitters, _ ” Sera mocked. If she were to look, Faen wondered if she would find the girl sticking her tongue out at her.

“That’s a shame,” Faen mumbled. 

The girl made a sound similar to a thud. “Have you really given up?” Sera whined, “Thought you were Andraste’s Big Chosen one. Herald to save us all an’ that shite.”

“I never claimed to be,” Faen admitted sincerely, “I was never consulted on any of this. Not that it matters. But I had a say in  _ this _ .”

Sera was quiet. Her vibrant energy seemed to recede as she felt Faen’s disdain brush up against her skin. 

“Do you know what it’s like?” Faen whispered, “I feel cornered. I’m exposed in every way, but also I feel like I’m backed into something I can’t get out of.”

“Do you feel that here?” Sera asked as gently as she could. Faen could not put into words how meaningful it was to have her vulnerability matched and respected. There was an impression that moments such as these were a rarity with Sera.

“I’m...not sure. I feel dampened, but not cornered,” Faen sighed, “Strange, isn’t it?”

Sera scoffed. “You think you’re just going to die here, Lady Herald?” she questioned.

Was she? Dying here was not an impossibility. But reality whispered in her ear something so faint she had to strain to hear it.

_ That does not matter. Do you  _ think  _ you’re going to die here? _

By far, that was a more essential and colossal question to ask. Her answer defined everything, determined the way the wind blew, and carried this hopelessly lost ship either to shore or draw it even further into the open sea. 

“Would it really matter to me? I’d be dead” she confessed.

As inappropriate as it was following a somber confession of indifference to death, she began to laugh. Her wrists burned at the thought of A’len slapping at them harshly and reprimanding her into oblivion. A’len — long dead, but ever present. 

“‘ _ Spit those words right out, Faeneth! Shame on you for such disregard for your mother’s pain! Such blatant disrespect for her efforts, who raised you?’”  _ Faen imitated the old woman’s voice as best she could. It had been so long since she’d heard that woman’s voice...in her dreams, it felt like a hollow attempt at replicating what could not be replicated. 

A’len would pull her out of this, were she alive. Her non-stop shrieking would be so loud, so grand in scale it could not allow for anything other than itself to dig into her mind. There would be no doubt, no resignation. Only a blazing fury to carry her out of here. 

_ I miss you,  _ _ Vheraan’shan. _

“You havin’ a break from reality?” Sera guessed.

Faen smiled to herself. Suddenly, she could no longer stand to be on her back, staring at the ceiling. By now, she knew every nook, every spider, every cobweb by heart. It was terribly dull. She stood and walked over to the door, wincing as her knees popped in the sudden transition from dormancy to use. “Nothing. Disregard that,” she said and pressed herself up against the bars, “But you should seriously consider my offer. The Inquisition has the ability to do a lot of good. Would you really glance over it because I’m in a bit of a funk? Sounds like you’re a bit of a brat to me.”

Toeing the ground, Sera avoided her gaze. With someone as unpredictable as her, the girl could be mulling the offer over or trying hard to ignore her. 

“Don’t know where to go…” Sera finally spoke.

“Haven. Up in the Frostback…”

Boots with soles like rocks thundered about in the hall. Faen sucked in a breath as they neared and Sera darted into an inky black shadow to hide herself from view. The sounds of someone approaching always knotted up her stomach. Resignation was a difficult beast to tame when one had a certain disdain for the unpredictable. An approach could mean anything.

Faen released her breath when she saw a face, bare and drawn in worry.

“Arnard,” she breathed.

She had not seen the man since her first day here, nearly a week ago. His kindness and overt respect for her would not leave her mind easily. His presence would have eased her greatly, but there was a suspicious absence of it in the following days. 

“Lady Lavellan,” he exhaled with great sincerity, “My apologies for my absence. When it was made obvious what my thoughts were on the situation, I was promptly removed from my duties. I’ve been sentenced to countless years of paperwork.”

He chuckled lightly at his own expense. 

“Then what are you doing here?” she asked.

Arnard cleared his throat. “There was commotion in the barracks. Your spymaster arrived, as did your chief diplomat, and lawyer. They demanded to speak with you, but the guards are under strict orders to not allow you visitors.”

Sera scoffed from her shadow. It did not disturb Arnard in the slightest. 

“Can they do that?” Faen asked, stupefied, “Surely, that’s not legal!”

“No, they can’t,” Arnard confirmed, “But luckily for you, I don’t give a shit about orders and prefer to see justice upheld.”

He withdrew the key to her cell from his side pocket. The sound of the mechanism in the door unlocking was particularly satisfying this go around. 

“Come quickly and bring your friend,” he said.

Sera gasped. “How’d he know I was here?” she shrieked.

“You’re nowhere near as sly as you think. Did you not notice me behind my desk? You crept right by me,” Arnard said.

“Andraste’s flamin’ ass! Thought you was a statue!” Sera exclaimed as she came forth from the shadows, “Mighty fine jaw you got there, mate, yeah?”

* * *

Approaching her now, Faen figured Leliana’s dark hood was typically terrifying. From all but a few angles, it consumed her face, rendered her a powerfully built body with no identification. In all their interactions, the Sister had instilled in her a sense of mild unease. But none of that was present now.

As she drew nearer to her, Faen knew exactly who it was, what she meant. Something just shy of hope welled up and she had to hold herself back from skipping into the spymaster’s arms. At Leliana’s side stood Josephine looking flustered yet as radiant as ever, every hair coaxed into place perfectly. Illen was also present. All three women were engaged in a furious debate with a masked man.

The conversation ended abruptly as the guard recognized who it was that stalked down the hallway. 

“What is  _ this? _ ” the man hissed.

The women turned to see what he spoke of. Leliana looked old, far older than Faen had ever realized. Josephine looked tired and despite all physical appearances of collection, seemed frazzled. Their eyes widened in unison as they saw her approach.

“I’ve collected the Herald from her cells and brought her here, as it should be.” Arnard spoke, his head held high.

“Return her this instant!” the guard exclaimed, “You had no right!”

“And you had no right to deny her the counsel before us,” Arnard spit back.

“The courts will hear about this, rest assured.” Illen said.

“Why have you kept her from us?” Leliana demanded.

Faen shifted uncomfortably. Her hands were not bound, but it felt as if they should have been. Without confines, she hadn’t a clue what to do with them. Behind her, Sera oozed in amusement as she watched the exchange.

“She was deemed a security risk,” the guard explained, “She was not to be taken from her cell.”

“A security risk?” Faen asked, “As if I’ve posed a threat to any of you!”

The masked man sliced through the women like butter and practically stormed her. Faen prepared herself to be swept up and gripped as if she were dangling over an edge, but it never came. Arnard stepped in front of her, his body acting as a shield between her and the guard.

“Out of my way, Arnard!” the guard bellowed, “This is not your business! You aren’t really even a member of the guard anymore.”

“I understand you’re just following orders,” Arnard rationalized, “But consider  _ what you’re doing.  _ What is happening here.”

“Nothing is happening here besides a scorned man acting out in spite!” the guard continued. He began to wrestle Arnard for access to Faen.

“What you’re doing is  _ illegal,  _ Harper! See it!” Arnard exclaimed. Arnard was larger than his opponent, both in height and in bulk, and the masked guard was easily overcome and subdued. 

“Good men act on bad orders all the time,” Leliana grumbled, “Shame they do not recognize it until it is too late.”

Harper struggled in the position Arnard had him pinned, his mask scraping against the stone of the ground and his arms twisted uncomfortably behind his back. “Cauncelt will know about this!” he barked.

“I’m sure,” Leliana said, “Cauncelt has a reputation. One I doubt his superiors are privy to.”

“Does the Empress know, I wonder?” Josephine posited. She pressed her fingertips to her parted lips. 

Harper gave up his struggle and went limp. Faen did not need to see his face to know the look upon it.

_ You’ve given in like me. How very little it takes to snuff out the fight in us. _

“You know the mess he’s made. You know how far he’s fallen. The music has stopped. Why must you still dance?” Josephine asked sadly. 

“Music never  _ really  _ stops, y’know…” Sera mumbled under her breath.

“Just go,” Harper spit, “Your point has been made and you have your way paved for you. Leave.”

They all exchanged looks. In the air lingered a sense of muddied doubt that would not leave. A convert he was not and as such, he was a threat. Who was to say the second they turned their backs, disappeared out of sight, that he would not run off to alert a larger force? 

Faen did not care, in all honesty. Done were her days of quaking in fear of men who hid behind masks. They had not laid a finger on her since Cauncelt, had rarely bothered her, and seemed content to whisper about her in the privacy of each other’s company. What could they do, hm? 

The security of being untouchable wasn’t really security at all — it was too shaky and flimsy to burrow too deeply into and feel genuine safety. But she did not care. She felt untouchable in this moment, felt like she was on the cusp of chipping away the final piece to reveal this grand masterpiece of hate and corruption. 

Harper was left alone, abandoned as Arnard guided them to a room where they could speak without fear of being overheard. Faen cast him one last glance over her shoulder as they walked away. He would do nothing, she realized. He would go about his duty as if what had just transpired was a fading dream. She felt bad for him.

Josephine had been wrong. Sera had been right. The music had not stopped playing. The piece the orchestra played was almost at its end, but it was not yet there. Just a little while longer before everyone could collapse…

Those that danced were exhausted beyond measure. Sanity and reasoning had been depleted and in their place was a feral desire to see this  _ end.  _ Because with an end, their feet had nothing to move to. With an end, they could stop. Begging the orchestra to stop was useless — their music filled their heads and fogged their thoughts. The conductor fueled the madness, let it crawl into everyone’s heads and nest in their hearts. Wickedness kept them going.

_ The music will stop soon enough, Harper. You can rest. _

She was pulled into a room that bore resemblance to the one where she’d first met Illen. A long table occupied the center of the room, chairs tucked neatly up under it, and two slants of light falling across the room through the small windows. The air was nowhere near as heavy and dank as the previous room. Faen was thankful for that. 

As soon as the door latched behind her, Leliana fell upon her. Her narrow shoulders were gripped tightly by the Nightingale and her face, ghostly white and framed by long wavy locks the color of oranges, was inches from hers. Deep blue eyes darted across her face, swimming in profound concern and tiredness. “Are you alright?” Leliana implored. Faen half expected the woman to shake her.

“I’m fine,” Faen responded. Her answer felt anticlimactic, to say the least. The urgency in Leliana’s voice made her feel as if her worry was wasted on someone who had such a...dull run of things.

“Truly?” Leliana asked, surprised by her answer.

“Truly,” Faen parroted.

At the edge of her vision, Josephine’s powerful brows knitted together in confusion. “I don’t understand,” the woman said, as equally confused as Leliana, “Please explain.”

Sera scoffed. “Wasso hard to understand?” she moaned, “You expect her to have the shite beat out of her every hour or somethin’?”

Leliana released Faen’s shoulders, the spymaster’s touch so firm it lingered for a moment. Her face contorted as she wandered through emotions. “We expected…” she began.

“Abuses, to say the least. Numerous abuses, violation of rights, and mistreatment,” Josephine finished for her.

Faen smiled grimly to herself. Was that disappointment in their voices? They admitted to  _ expecting _ abuses, but it seemed to her that they had  _ anticipated _ it. “Neglect often times rivals outright abuse,” she muttered.

“We have a theory about that,” Illen piped up, “This case carries a heavy load. The ruling will set precedent. If there’s so much as a whiff of mistreatment, the whole thing could fall apart.”

“Yes…” Leliana conceded. 

“Makes sense. Empress Celene has proven to be quite sympathetic to the plight of the elves. She would not stand for brutality against you,” Josephine said, “Your crimes, at this point, are only alleged, afterall.”

A dark chuckle rumbled in Faen’s chest. She couldn’t help it. The idea that  _ Celene truly cared _ for the elven people was amusing. It was even more amusing considering that Lady Josephine believed it. Blaming her was useless, though. Josephine saw Celene’s actions through the eyes of a human and there was no fixing that. 

“To what extent do you think Celene cares about me?” Faen wondered, “The elves?”

Josephine cleared her throat. The clunky clanking of the gears turning in her head was loud. “Her Radiance is more devoted to the elves-” she began, but she faltered. Her words were manufactured, meant to maintain, not convert. But Faen had precious little to maintain in the first place.

“In the grand scheme of things, you and your people matter very little to the Empress,” Leliana proclaimed confidently, “She has not let her biases, not  _ that  _ bias, drip into her politics. You are right to question Celene’s care. She has done the bare minimum to appease the elves.”

“Appeasement is a strong word. The few laws she’s passed are but weak reinforcements to a dam bound to bust,” Josephine admitted. 

That did not concern Faen in the slightest, not so much as Leliana’s comment on Celene’s biases. Her tongue itched to speak the words into existence. What did she mean? A bias…

She tucked that away for later use.

“Regardless of that, I am glad you are alright, Faen,” Leliana said and Josephine nodded, “I’ve sent word to all my contacts for aid. So far, I’ve only heard back from a few. None bode too well.”

Josephine sighed. “We have  _ tangible  _ evidence of a set-up, but no means of using it. No noble family will come near us, not if they value their carefully cultivated reputations,” she said, “Couriers could be sent, but there is no guarantee they will not be targeted on their route, the documents stolen and destroyed.”

“ _ But… _ ” Leliana teased, “I have heard talk of Cassandra and the others having procured the help of someone who might give us an in.”

“So I’ve heard,” Illen muttered, “Lady Vivienne of the Circle of Magi.”

“You’ve heard?” Josephine asked.

“Naturally. She put on quite the show at her little party. Defended the honor of the Inquisition valiantly and waltzed off somewhere with Lady Pentaghast and the others. Everyone noticed how the Inquisition were given rooms to stay in, while other guests were carted off back home,” Illen said, “Or so I’ve heard. Not like I was invited…”

Leliana chuckled. “Your position on the Circles isn’t exactly a private one. Surely your active opposition to her and what she stands for has ruffled some feathers,” she pointed out.

Illen huffed. “As if Madame de Fer  _ isn’t _ above a disagreement…” she grunted.

Faen was horribly lost. As was Arnard. Sera had propped herself up on the other side of the table and was snoring away, head thrown back and all. 

“I’m sorry, Madame de Fer? Who is she?” Faen stumbled.

“A mage with power in the courts,” answered Arnard, “Quite a bit of it. She’s rather famous in Val Royeaux, if not all of Orlais. What does she want with the Inquisition?”

“What she always wants,” spat Illen, “Power. Power to push her agenda.”

“What agenda is that?” Faen asked.

“She’s a loyalist,” Josephine replied, “She’s remained rather faithful to the idea of the Circles this entire time.”

“Why she chose the Inquisition is beyond me,” Illen admitted.

Leliana raised a hand to silence her. “That does not matter. What matters is that we have her,” Leliana said.

It felt as if the world were spinning with all this information being dropped on her. It was too fast, too heavy for her to possibly absorb. However, she was trying. “Did you not know about this?” Faen finally managed. 

“We’ve been at sea the past few days, Herald,” said Leliana, “You can imagine the delay in messages.”

“We’ve been in the city all of two hours,” Josephine relayed, “Madame Vivienne’s involvement was purely speculation. We knew someone powerful had joined the Inquisition. A name was lacking.” 

It was so very strange to see how the world around her continued to move while her own world was completely still. Life did not stop because she was not a participant in it. Her whole life, her role in the world had been small. Where she once was but a mere pebble at the bottom of the pond, she now felt like a giant rock raised overhead, on the cusp of being thrown into the water. She felt stuck in this overhead position. Unallowed to make the ripples she must to stir the waves. It was...unsettling.

Faen crumpled into herself, knees drawn in tight to her chest and back pressed flatly against the back of the chair. Debate whirled around her, falling upon her ears, but never making it into her head. Her hand, cold and growing numb, absently snaked into the hidden pocket of her shirt. 

Fingers brushed up against something and she gasped faintly. The sound was not enough to draw attention to herself. She would not withdraw the object in her pocket for fear of being questioned. Her thumb ran over the object, feeling the shape of whatever it was beneath the pad of it. The mysterious object was smooth and small enough to be pinched neatly between her forefinger and thumb.

_ I had forgotten about you. _

The necklace had slipped her mind. She remembered tucking it into that hidden pocket, unsure of why she kept it, why she brought it, and forgotten about it.

Smoothness glided between her thumb and forefinger like poured honey. The cut at her throat, while healing, gave an uncomfortable and powerful surge. Days of ignoring their presence and now she was suddenly aware of two things. The only thing missing were the press of spectral hands. 

The other unoccupied hand slid around her throat, its touch barely more than a whisper upon her skin as it rubbed at the column. A pulse thudded dully at the tip of her middle finger. 

So she was alive. Why didn’t she feel like it?

“Herald?” 

Faen’s toying with the necklace stopped, as did the throb of the cut, the pressure from her throat lifted. It was as if her entire being was frozen. All eyes were upon her, except for Sera’s, and the looks in them suggested that they awaited an answer from her.

“What?” she breathed and uncurled herself from her position.

“I said that Madame Vivienne is our only chance at getting through the Empress and I asked if you agreed,” Josephine recounted patiently.

Why her input was important was beyond her. Besides feeling as if the decision would be made with or without her consent, she  _ knew  _ this was the best option. She knew virtually nothing about anything currently unfolding in this room besides that this Madame Vivienne was sent from the gods to deliver them. An informed decision seemed unlikely. 

“Yes,” she said, wanting them to go away, leave her alone so she could dwell on her feelings of stillness and smallness. 

It worked and they returned to their conversation without her. The hope had not dimmed, not noticeably, but Faen felt as if it had been removed from her entirely and placed on display in front of her. She watched as their debate was filled with enthusiasm and that hope and she wondered why she couldn’t partake.

_ Why, why, why? I want to feel it. It is mine, it was always meant for me. Where did it go? Give it back. _

Eventually, a course of action was agreed upon and it came time for Faen to return to her cell. Leliana offered her a small, pleased smile, squeezed her hand, and whispered something about having faith. Josephine bowed to her. 

Arnard escorted her back alone.

“I don’t want to go back,” said Faen.

The ring of keys on his belt jingled with every step. “You will be free of this soon, your Worship.” he assured her.

“Alright.”

That night, on her flimsy cot, she rolled onto her back, and held her breath for as long as she could stand it. When her lungs were screaming for air, she sucked in a big breath. On the exhale, she promised that she would believe him.

* * *

Vivienne’s face was pleasant when it was still and focused. When her mouth wasn’t spitting veiled insults and propaganda, her lips were the kind Solas once loved to trace, to praise, to capture in works of art. When her eyes were not peeling back flesh, slicing through sinew, cracking bones to bare a soul, her eyes were kind. It was hard to reckon this quiet and focused woman with the one who had a most vicious reputation. In the days since their arrival at her apartments in Val Royeaux, Solas had interacted with her little. Most times, she was off somewhere or locked away in her study tending to business. 

However, there were occasions when they would cross paths, trade words. These instances were polite enough at first glance. Beneath the surface simmered a mounting hostility. Solas did not want conflict with the Enchantress, but there were times he wondered if that is exactly what she thirsted for. A notably ambiguous and honed remark slung at him unexpectedly. Or a glint in her eyes that begged him to  _ try _ . 

Perhaps she thought she would worm her way under his skin and get him to crack. She seemed the type to take pleasure from having the upper hand. But he was above the subtle antagonism of a human. His worst impulses had been checked ages ago, wrangled in and forced to submit to his will centuries before the fall of Arlathan. He derived amusement from her attempts.

It was nice sometimes to give into those thoughts. Engage in an argument for the sake of an argument. He was not there yet, though. For now, his nastiest remarks grew fat in his head.

“Solas, dear, what on earth are you staring at?” Vivienne asked, not even bothering to look up from the papers clasped in her hand. She brought the teacup to her lips — its handle looked too flimsy to be touched without cracking — and sipped daintily on the tea. 

“Nothing, Madame de Fer,” he cooed, “I was just lost in thought.”

Her dark eyes flicked over to him. The teacup was placed on the table, her papers abandoned. “Do enlighten me,” she begged sweetly, feigning a smile.

“I was just thinking about how gracious it was of you to allow us to stay in your apartments,” he said, motioning to the room, “More gracious when you consider that you’ve taken an elf into your home. I recall that your reputation was of the utmost importance to you and surely, cavorting with an elf will do it no favors.”

Vivienne sighed. The leg thrown over her thigh began to bounce absently. “Are we cavorting, darling?” she questioned.

“Are we?” he turned, smiling just as sickeningly at her as she was to him.

“You’re not my type, sweetheart,” she expressed, “I prefer my men to have a little more coin in their pocket.”

He snorted. The view outside the window suddenly became far more interesting than their conversation. “Tragic…” he muttered beneath his breath.

It did not disturb Vivienne. “Besides, if memory serves, you called me...a snake?” she noted with slight uncertainty. She pondered things for a moment before her spine straightened with certainty. “Yes. ‘A snake in the grass.’ What an accusation! Your faith in it was moving, to say the least. Did you gather that from a simple first impression?”

His smile slipped. He was no longer in the mood to play this little game of nicety. While it wasn’t giving in — he was nowhere near cracking — it was useless to play at this guise. He would be polite, as he always was, but the sweet act would fade away. “First impressions set a precedent, Madame de Fer. I hope this is not the first you’ve heard of the impact of a first impression,” he said, “Your kind are frightfully easy to decipher.”

A burst of easy laughter erupted from her, her head thrown back and left hand pressed to her chest. The laughter eventually passed and she made a display of wiping away a tear at the corner of her eye. “You say that as if you have experience with my kind.  _ Extensive _ experience.” she challenged. 

Solas remained silent. His face was a neutral mask. His hands were clasped neatly atop the table, posture relaxed. He was as unthreatening as ever. 

Across from him, Vivienne tapped her bottom lip with her index finger. Her eyes bore into him like he was a puzzle she could not piece together. “However effortlessly it is to take me apart, I cannot say the same about you,” she admitted with great amusement, “Something crawls beneath my skin like an insect when I look at you. Am I to believe your role in this upstart is entirely selfless?”

“What indication is there that it isn’t?” he asked.

Somehow, the Enchantress made a shrug look as if it had never occurred in the first place in spite of him bearing witness to it . “None that I can perceive,” she admitted, “But it is my experience that those who draw the least attention play a far greater part than anyone could have expected.”

“The Breach threatens the world. One would think the extinction of life as we know it would urge one to set aside selfish, messy grabs for power,” he lamented half-heartedly, “I do not need to assure you of my motives. Neither you need do the same to me. I can harbor my opinions of you, of anything, without letting them taint the treatment.”

Another fit of laughter was sure to come, but it was only a light chuckle he received. “How respectful,” said Vivienne, “Luckily for you, disagreements, however unsure of exactly what they are I may be, do not render me a frothing mess.” 

His smile returned. Forced as it may be, it was meant to ease tension. “I expected no less of a lady of the court,” he said.

The door to the sitting room squealed as it opened, drawing both their attentions to it. A small man, small enough to bring to mind an elf, entered. The shape of his ears was wrong to be an elf. 

“Mistress, Sister Nightingale and Lady Montilyet are here.” he said.

Vivienne thanked and dismissed him. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth, ridding herself of any crumbs from her hardly touched breakfast, and sighed. Solas moved to stand as well before the Enchantress shot up a hand to halt him. “Your assistance will not be necessary,” she revealed firmly, “I grow tired of your presence. Cassandra will be enough.”

Scowling, Solas relaxed back into his seat. He grew tired of her presence as well, but to exclude him from such important matters...Vivienne’s previous words about disagreements not changing her treatment rang hollow. She might not be a frothing mess, but she was certainly not the kindly champion of acceptance. 

Two could play at that game, though he wondered if it was a game he wanted to play at all. Games were fun, for a time. At the height of his youth and power, even the most splendid of games could hold his attention for all but a moment. That had not changed. His ego was not so fragile as to be destroyed by someone playing childish games. Plenty of people had disliked him over time and had it dampened his parade? Not in the slightest. But there came a limit for what he would take and the Madame had reached it. 

His agency would not be tossed aside because she willed it. Whether she liked it or not, there would be no world to save if not for him. The Inquisition could not go forward without him. Or Faen. For now, Vivienne’s entire purpose was to gain Faen back.

The girl had not been at the forefront of his mind all too often over the past few days. Faen wasn’t absent from his thoughts at all, no matter how infrequently he decided to dreg up the thoughts of her...tortured in a cell? Locked away, key discarded and forgotten about? Hm…

He frowned.

Solas had a problem, one that rang true through all the many centuries of his life, and it was that he cared far too deeply about things. In his youth, he cared profoundly for his many slaves. Always, no matter the nasty and bloody disputes with his brethren, no matter the vicious wars, the undeniable strife, his slaves were well-taken care of. Safe, protected.  _ At all costs.  _ It was this affinity for his slaves, in particular, a single slave, that made him see with eyes that  _ saw  _ and  _ knew.  _ A single slave who proved to be the entire undoing of all the Elvhen. She called herself Anuon, place of good pain, and it was her who showed Fen’Harel how astray the world had gone. Rumors would paint her as his lover, his desire for her having leapt beyond the flesh and into the very essence of who she was. Legend, were it still around, would mar her as a poison arrow in the beating heart of the people. 

Truth was rarely a thing worth bothering with. The truth was much simpler, yet so much more than anyone could have believed. Anuon was no lover, no poisoned arrow. She was...scared. Afraid of what her life would be on this new path, one she had been violently and heartlessly set on. 

Rebellion ensued. Rebellion guided by his hand, but acted upon by the thousands and thousands of those liberated by him. And once again, he cared. Cared so much it nearly tore him apart. With every death, it felt like a raging storm of defeat and heartbreak. 

Along the way, he had learned to remove himself from his duty. Mythal taught him to be clinical in his duty, showed him how distance would spare him the pain of close proximity. It worked. To an extent. The pain was lessened dramatically, but that blasted sense of responsibility and investment remained. 

Faen was not of the Elvhen, he had no obligation to her. But she was his pupil. She looked to him for knowledge and wisdom and because of it, he owed her  _ something.  _ His care was present, there was no denying that. 

“That was fun.”

Varric strolled out from a darkened corner of the room, smiling like he’d just won a bet. It was strange to see his back bare, his hands empty. The dwarf seemed as if he was built for the express purpose of holding Bianca. Without the crossbow anywhere in sight, Solas felt as if he were a child discovering ‘Mother’ was not her name. Strange as it was for him to part with Bianca, his trademark chest hair was on luxurious display.

“No offense, Chuckles, but I’m shocked at how well you held your ground. That said, I’m giving this fight to the Enchantress. Got a few good barbs in there without being too painfully obvious,” Varric commended. He took up the spot opposite to Solas, filling the seat Vivienne left behind.

“I hate to inform you, dwarf, but that was not a fight,” Solas revealed.

Varric cocked an inquisitive brow. “How silly of me! It was just a really polite, vividly hostile  _ conversation  _ between two people on shaky ground where they tried to throw the other off.  _ Politely _ ,” he said. He had a way with his voice, Solas noticed, where it was as if he were caught somewhere between sarcasm and relative seriousness. How very interesting. 

Solas snorted. “Our  _ conversation  _ was just the beginning.” he stated assuredly. 

“Of something I don’t want to be around to see finished,” Varric declared, “Or maybe I do. Who knows? I do love a good tense relationship. Something so exciting about never knowing when that tension will bubble over.”

“There will be no bubbling over, at least not on my part,” Solas warned him, “I suspect the same is true of the Enchantress.”

“Oh, she’ll most definitely bubble over, just not in the explosive, set-you-on-fire-with-her-Angry-fireball-magic way,” Varric said, “Madame Vivienne seems to me to be much more underhanded than that.”

_ Of that she does. _

“So perceptive,” Solas teased.

Varric tapped his temple with a ringed finger. “It’s all in here. I was born with this uncanny intuition. A gift from the Maker, in all its glory.” he admitted.

Clearly, he was not as intuitive as he thought. If this innate instinct he so proudly boasted about fairly frequently was half the loud and sophisticated thing he thought, the dwarf would have already caught whiff of Solas’ dubious nature. It worked in his favor, but it was amusing. Many things about the way people in this age carried themselves were amusing. 

The conversation blurred into silence. Here, his thoughts resurfaced and gurgled like a long-forgotten soup on the fire. 

_ Brush me aside, Vivienne. You will find it no easy task to keep me where you want me. _

A sick delight swelled up in him at the thought of the challenge Vivienne presented. Further down, anger paced. It was not the rabid dog it could be, but it was there. To prove himself once more...he could not resist. God of rebellion, of resistance he may be, but even  _ he _ knew when to give in. One did not launch a successful rebellion against the greatest powers of the age, of the world without knowing when to relent. 

The groan of the chair as it scraped across the floor filled the room, his joints creaking in protest as he stood. He was halfway across the room when Varric stopped him.

“Where to now, Chuckles?” he called.

“To eavesdrop. Complacency never sat well with me,” Solas responded.

Varric sighed. His rings chimed together on contact. His back was turned, but Solas did not need eyes to know the dwarf was idly twirling the rings on his squat fingers. “You tempt fate more than any man has a right to,” he mumbled.

Solas found the words to be eerily fitting. They cut hard, sundered vessels and cauterized them in unison to leave Solas feeling as if he the wind had been knocked from him yet somehow instilled in him in a matter of seconds. As much as it stung to hear those words muttered innocently and ignorantly, they did not cut deep. He lived with his actions everyday, without interruption. Instead of giving into the madness of potent accountability and guilt, he drew strength from the certainty of that guilt. His days were fueled by the knowledge that yes, he had a plan. 

_ A man who cannot finish a war he has started is a cowardly bastard at best. _

Mythal and her infinite wisdom he could never escape...

Perhaps the dwarf knew more than he initially gave him credit for. A sad smile cursed his lips, a bleak chuckle building from somewhere low within him.

“Rarely does it end in my favor,” he whispered.

-+-

Much to his surprise, Varric eventually joined Solas at the door to Vivienne’s study, his ear pressing firmly to the door. 

“I see the temptation of fate calls to you just as strongly as it does to me.” Solas murmured lowly. 

Varric smirked. “What can I say? I like to live my life on the edge and pissing off the Seeker is quite the edge,” he said.

There were far worse edges to live on and peer over giddily into impending doom. Plus, it  _ was  _ a certain degree of amusing to watch the Seeker twitch in annoyance. 

They quieted to hear the conversation on the other side of the door better. Before Varric joined, the conversation was nothing too exciting. Chinks in the armor laid bare in the hopes of mending them. Technicalities worked through. He could not tell if he had missed the vital information entirely or if they had yet to address it in the first place. Cassandra’s voice boomed from behind the door, so pronounced it felt as if she were right in his ear. Vivienne spoke decidedly softer, though their confidence and urgency were matched.

Two other voices resonated from within, though Solas was unsure of which belonged to who. He knew the ambassador and the spymaster were present, knew that one had a thick Antivan accent and the other a pretty Orlesian one. Either descriptor might have meant something if he knew regional accents from one another. He had only spoken to Sister Leliana briefly, if even that was the right word. All he could remember was her incisive gaze and level-head. 

One voice spoke of the gathered evidence in their possession. Another detailed the whereabouts of the Empress. Something sounding like a sigh was heaved. Wood creaked. Vivienne mentioned that the Empress was the least receptive to guests while in Val Royeaux. 

Varric scoffed. “What, like Val Royeaux is some sort of vacation?” he snickered. Solas hushed him.

Vivienne assuaged the rolling wave of light panic by assuring them that she said “least,” not “entirely dismissive of guests.” She followed by reminding everyone of the regard with which the Empress held her. 

Finally, a plan was laid out and the two men shared a perturbed look. It was decided that Vivienne was to act as a courier, all the evidence needed to prove a plot entrusted to her with the intent to get through to the Empress. From the sound of it, the Enchantress was to go  _ alone _ . This did not sit well with either of them. 

“Surely Cassandra isn’t  _ that  _ dense, right?” Varric muttered to himself. 

Thankfully, she wasn’t. As soon as Vivienne proposed the idea of her acting as courier, Cassandra insisted she accompany her. Both men breathed a collective sigh of relief. The Enchantress fought her on it for a bit, but ultimately gave in. Quickly. 

“Have you heard any mention of the kid?” Varric whispered.

Solas’ brow furrowed. Now that he mentioned it, he’d heard remarkably little about it. The conversation was well on its way when he decided to listen in, leaving room for Faen’s wellbeing to be discussed at the beginning. But he needed to  _ know  _ suddenly. It was instantly imperative that he was aware of her condition, whatever it may be. “I have not,” he admitted with disdain.

Varric frowned. “Fuck,” he breathed, “I feel like we should’ve done some-”

“You would find it would have been in vain,” Vivienne called loudly.

Both men froze, their eyes wide as they processed the reality of being caught. Soon enough, a wry smile slid onto his lips. 

_ Of course she would know.  _

“Do come in, my dears. It’s horrible manners to eavesdrop.” the Enchantress beckoned.

Varric squeezed his eyes shut as if to blot this from memory. Solas opened the door and strolled in rather stiffly, the fleeting sense of tepid amazement of her senses giving way to annoyance and impatience. 

“Do explain how efforts would have been in vain,” Solas commanded.

The room no longer a mystery, Solas saw that Vivienne had propped herself up against the bocote desk, that Cassandra stood rigid and solid with her massive arms folded across her chest, and the two other occupants were sipping from strangely tiny teacup the color of rubies. Presumably, these two women were Leliana and Lady Josephine. 

Yes...the more he stared at the hooded woman, the more familiar her features became.

“After our visit, it seemed the Herald was denied visitors of all kinds,” said Cassandra, “I believe even her counsel had a difficult time getting through.”

“Okay, and?” Varric asked, spreading his arms wide, “No one’s pushed a little harder to get through?”

Leliana rested her teacup on the matching plate with a sweet clink. “Actually, we did,” she crowed boldly, “It came as a great shock to us to see that she was perfectly fine.”

Varric had a hard time believing that and pressed the Sister for details, of which she gave eloquently. Solas held this same disbelief, one that deepened when Leliana’s recounting of Faen’s situation only meandered into the physical. There was no comment on her spirit, her feelings, or mentality. 

_ She looked a little frail, but not considerably so. She was horribly thin to begin with. Her eyes were tired. But she was unmarked, from what flesh was visible. Nothing to use against her captors in court. _

Solas managed a faint enough scoff so as to avoid confrontation. Was that their measure for “perfectly fine”? A lack of bruising and cuts, a meager loss of weight, eyes no more tired than a few nights of fitful sleep? No obvious maltreatment to wave around in the face of the public?

None of them were witness to the reality of Faen’s imprisonment. There were no diverse reports, no solid accounts. None outside of Faen herself. Physical soundness, however suspect that was, was not always a definite reflection of mental soundness. If her captors had the decency to leave her alone, she was not absolved of the madness and pain of isolation and neglect. 

Sound minds, those filled with centuries of the ways of enlightenment, and honed by meticulous practice and control, would collapse like an ashy log in the fire through mere years of deprivation of simple interaction. Before the fall, there was a certain field of interest that aimed to burrow deeply into the mind, strip it of its mystery. He never followed it closely, only heard mentions of it through idle gossip at parties, but he thought back on it now. 

The mind was a woefully fragile thing. It didn’t require the prodding and genius of an academic to know that. 

_Did you think to ask her about how she felt, dear Sister? A master of secrets such as yourself should be well acquainted with the adverse effects of imprisonment._ _Torture isn’t always the product of instruments. _

His fist clenched at his side. 

_ Ir abelas, da’len. _

His fist released, eyes widened.  _ Da’len?  _ Surely he had called her that before...it felt different this time. Sadder. The edges had been redefined and made sharper. He knew this feeling well, whatever it was. It flowed through him when he thought of the elves of today. Pity. Pity, but different. Directed, not broad. Responsive, not dismissive.  _ Empathy, not pity.  _ What was there to empathize with? Her thoughts and feelings were a mystery, as they always were, as they always would be if he kept this up.

Did he need to know? Did he  _ want _ to know?

“I would suggest an extreme dose of vigilance on your venture, perhaps a larger party,” said Solas, “Your allying with the Inquisition could only draw attention to yourself. Tongues must be wagging in every parlor and down every street. You can rest assured that the puppet masters have caught wind that something is amiss.”

A smile of nothing but pearly white teeth and barely contained venom was flashed his way. The way in which the Enchantress wielded falsehoods was almost impressive, if not for the fact that it was so blatantly obvious to  _ him.  _ Any normal person, say Varric, would find it difficult to see through the pretty and gaudy curtain she put up, though. “You are absolutely adorable, darling,” Vivienne remarked, “But I’m afraid obvious statements do not favor you as much as you think. I have already considered this and determined the possibility as minuscule. Attacking a member of the Imperial Court is unthinkable and reprehensible regardless of political agendas. Only a fool would dare try. And a larger escort would only draw even more unwanted attention.”

Solas presented his own toothy smile, his much more inviting and convincingly congenial. Vivienne was a grand player at this Game the Orlesians so loved, of that he was sure, but how long had she been at it? Twenty or so years? Ha. She was a child, learning how to play with toys competently enough to begin to convince herself of a fantasy world. By the time her people, humans, had a name in his tongue, Solas was already centuries into a mastery of facades. 

“I see. Do tell me, Enchantress, was your prodigious confidence enough to keep the Circles together?” he asked, feigning ignorance. 

It was glorious when her pristine smile faltered. He wouldn’t dare say the others saw it, but he caught it. Lost to time and memory was the true reason he was dubbed the Dread Wolf. It was not his wolfish grin, his stubborn endurance, or even his vehement savagery. His eyes were the source of the name. Always catching the most minute of changes with their stunning sensitivity. A twitch so insignificant that no one but him was aware of it, a bead of sweat lazily strolling down the bow of the lips. A wolf sees it all… 

At his side, he could see the widening of Varric’s eyes and weak attempt to hold off a splutter of shock. Cassandra groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I understand you had a say in the fate of the Circles,” he pressed, “Key us in on-”

“Make a point, dear.” Vivienne prodded as harshly as she could without teetering over into shameless hostility. 

“My point is that while confidence is instrumental in most things, it can quickly blind the eyes from seeing what is really there. Fanatics are seldom level-headed. To think the assassination of someone close to the crown is below desperate men consumed by hatred is wishful thinking.” he imparted.

“She is right,” Leliana piped up, “A larger party might alert the many eyes of this city that something is happening. But you are right as well, Solas. These are dangerous times for us all. Titles are little more than words at the front of names. They are not the solid shields they once were.”

Josephine nodded in agreement. “I can assure you, Lady Vivienne, you are not to be secure in your role as a member of the court. In fact, I cannot think of a more perfect time to lash out against societal restraints and order than now.” she said.

The desk creaked as Vivienne pushed off from it briskly, her clothes rustling as she stormed over to the grand window peering out into a bustling summer bazaar below. She fondled a locket at her throat, one Solas originally thought to be more of an embellishment than a sentimental piece. 

“Anyone have any  _ useful  _ proposals, then?” she barked.

“My people will watch from the shadows,” Leliana affirmed, “Should trouble arise, they will likely know before it happens. Of course, that is not to discredit our lovely Seeker.”

Cassandra acknowledged through the huff of a disgruntled noise. “When should we leave?” she asked.

Vivienne sighed. “Celene’s days are filled with meetings and strategizing disguised as small talk,” she said, “Her nights are decidedly less rigorously scheduled. We leave at nightfall.”

“Nightfall?” Cassandra echoed with obvious skepticism, “Wouldn’t it be better to leave now? We would draw too much attention to ourselves at night.”

“You  _ could _ leave now, though I doubt it would be any quicker,” said Josephine. Her delicate fingers steepled. “The Empress will not be drawn from her duties unless it is a matter of utter importance. You would likely be held for hours until she was made available.”

“I don’t know about you, but I would prefer not to die of boredom. It would be a terrible waste if we both perished at the hands of it. Boredom is a guarantee.” Vivienne said. She turned from the window to face the rest of the room. Agitation was evident in her posture and rigid line of her shoulders. 

While the finer details were worked out, Solas found his attention drawn to the Sister who seemed to bleed into the nearest corner. It wasn’t any sort of movement that gave this impression, rather a feeling. Like him, the conversation unfolding around them had been muted and she existed in her own little world. Her fingers ran over a stack of papers tied together with strips of leather, a royal red wax seal stamped over the junction of them. Hopefully this was the evidence. 

In Leliana’s eyes was a quiet sadness he was beyond well-acquainted with. A sadness boiling in guilt, with the potential to burrow deep into her heart and advance like a cancer. 

Knowing what sacrifices the gathering of information such as this entailed was a troublesome thing. Great leaders knew the inevitability of these things, became so well-versed in the art of sacrifice that it came as easily as batting an eye. That’s how it should have been, anyways. Cruel leaders were the exception. Most instances, however, that fabled ease was non-existent. With power comes a certain expectation of duty. With duty comes a certain expectation of action. Solas found that realizing a course of action to be an absolute must didn’t make things any easier. 

_ Guilt and duty are close bedfellows. _

The chatter in the room slowly became numbing sound that made his head feel fuzzy. He excused himself diplomatically and made his way to the balcony just off the parlor. 

Air carrying the solemn notes of autumn kissed his skin, skirted over the sharp points of his ears. Evidence of a fading summer was everywhere here, unlike in the snowy ranges of the Frostback Mountains where Haven was nestled like a child. There was often a mild bite in the air, the trees in gardens were shedding their leaves, the light of the Sun was softer. Everything about Haven was harsh, but here, in the city, it was as if natural phenomenon were experienced at a much more palatable rate and intensity.

He had grown somewhat used to the air in Val Royeaux, what with it’s strange and pretty smells. Perfume, yeasty bread, exotic spices, rich stews. The blend was...interesting. When he first arrived, he could hardly stand it. His nose had known only the smell of smoke and cold and earth for a year. Quickly, though, did his mind associate the smell with the streets of something familiar. For once, it was not Arlathan he was reminded of, but  _ home. Real home.  _ The place he was born, the village in which he grew up in. Solas could do without the perfume, home never smelled of perfume, but the smell of baked goods and dishes that did not exist anymore…

The memories had knocked the breath from him. He felt hollowed out, empty. While pleasant, it suddenly felt as if the air in the city had grown too thick. Filled his lungs like water.

And then his mind eased as he recalled the smell of lavender and spruce. It brushed past him, filled his nose with the ghost of it. It was not there, but he could smell it and it was like his insides had been returned. Moments passed, his breathing still for one, even the next. 

That smell…

Had he even noticed it at first? The smell of her as she swept past him, as she fell in step beside him, as he hovered over her with her nose buried in one of the books he’d given her. Yes, he would have had to. He knew it well enough to know whose skin it clung to, whose hair it was braided through. Faen. 

Why her? Why that smell? Solas couldn’t recall ever being fond of the soapy smell of lavender. Spruce was nice, just not nice enough to suddenly overpower and neutralize a strong memory. And it was puzzling to him that the very thought of Faen could silence the chaos in his head. Without meaning to, he had conjured up the smell of her, a smell he didn’t even know he knew, to replace what so bothered him. 

Fitting that he would only notice such a scent when it was gone. 

He was annoyed to admit that her company was missed. He’d tamped that sadness and anxiety down to such a level that it was beyond his reach anymore. Once it got there, he snuggled up into a false sense of security that it would stay there. Slowly, over the course of several hours, it had begun to boil back up all frothy and hot. 

Mulling it over more and more, a sense of dread and uneasiness began to build. Solas had advocated for Madame Vivienne’s partnership with the Inquisition on the basis that she had powerful allies. But he knew that had a cost. Knew he was Faen — playing with fire and unable to exert enough control to properly handle it. Very rarely did he willingly place himself in such a vulnerable position. Usually, he set in motion a plan, power his almost completely, and then something would go wonky, spiral out of control, and blow up in his face angrily. 

The short of it was that he did not trust the Enchantress, not with such vital and sensitive information. Her nature, which he admittedly knew scant about, but knew enough to be unpredictably dubious was of great concern. Nothing concerned him more than her allegiance to a predatory, oppressive institution ruled over by an equally predatory and oppressive Chantry. The Chantry with the less than pristine history with the elves. 

Documents, bound and sealed with a stamp of the Nightingale’s assurance of legitimacy, could find themselves torn apart in Vivienne’s hands. Set aflame, dropped into a muddy puddle, crumbled up and disposed of. Cassandra’s presence meant nothing — she could not act until she  _ knew _ to act. He was not entirely helpless. A few of his own personal agents were in the city. Communication was disjointed with his focus on maintaining a cover and aiding the Inquisition. But they were there. Only the highest ranked agents could communicate with him telepathically and none of them were here. He’d sent word out to keep an eye on the Enchantress, but had heard nothing back.

If they did their job right, the second Vivienne left the apartment, an agent would have eyes on her.

On an exhale, Solas opened his eyes to see the world had darkened, the streets below lit by lamps with charged magic. Behind him, things were prepared for departure. He turned to face them. 

Vivienne and Cassandra were dressed as if for an innocent evening out. If one looked closely enough, one could see the unusual bulk and stiffness beneath the simple cotton of the Seeker’s shirt. Weapons were tucked away from sight. 

Solas eyed the passage of documents from Leliana to Vivienne carefully. The very top page was torn at the bottom. 

So much weighed on Vivienne adhering to her word that it was painfully uncomfortable. Faen was the only person who could seal the Breach. Faen was the only person in centuries he could listen to without his attention leisurely wandering off at some point. Faen was the only person he could see himself grow to enjoy in this gruesomely disconnected world. He took none of that lightly.

He watched from his perch on the balcony as they passed through the street below. Before they disappear completely, he noticed a shadow at their heels. They likely did not see it, but he could.

Breath escaped him that he did not know he’d been holding.

That little cat, black coat glistening in the streetlight and tail fully erect, gave him the optimism he needed to move away from the balcony and retreat back into his room. 

Should Vivienne’s intentions prove nefarious, that little cat would ensure she never had the chance to act upon them. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
Vheraan’shan = old lion  
Ir abelas, da’len = I am sorry, little one


	8. Taste of Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's over -- the corner I'd backed myself into has been vacated and the Val Royeaux saga is over...for now. Have some soft Solavellan stuff.

_ Fingers in her hair, distantly familiar, and combing through the messy curls. They were not the usual ones, gnarled and rough one extent above what was necessary to work through the tangles. These fingers were gentle and straight. A melody hummed in their chest, lulling Faen into an unusual state of contentment and blind submission. _

_ She did not remember resting her head in their lap, but she was somewhat aware of the crossed legs pressing against the back of her neck. Discomfort should’ve presided. It did not. It was pressure and contours registering in her brain, not the too hard twist of limbs.  _

_ Desire to see who this was bloomed slowly in her chest. Her eyes had been shut the entire time, she never remembered closing them or having them open, and the mystery of this person stroking her hair was titillating. Strange… _

_ Touch made her uncomfortable. Even when A’len would touch her, after all their years of closeness and understanding, Faen would have to resist the urge to swat away her hands. But she did not mind these hands in her hair, the calming melody they hummed. She was not frightened by the enigma that held her close.  _

_ “Do not open your eyes, da’len.” _

_ The voice was that of a woman. It was as gentle as her hands, as ethereal as her state of mind. Regardless of these qualities, the voice was quite distinctively low. Distinctive enough that Faen was positive she’d never heard it before, but there was a nagging feeling that that was the wrong conclusion. It sank into her skin and penetrated her heart, filled her with a sense of longing she couldn’t understand.  _

_ “Why?” she asked. _

_ “Because. You do not need to see me,” the voice said. _

_ Faen frowned. “Why not?” she asked. _

_ The voice chuckled and it was heart-breakingly familiar but so far from her pinning down. “You  _ will not  _ be able to see me no matter how hard you try.” she said. _

_ “Where am I?” _

_ “Where you always are.” _

_ “I am not always  _ in _ somewhere.” _

_ “You do not think so. Are you aware of your heart beating in your chest at all times?” the voice teased kindly, “We are all somewhere and we do not know it.” _

_ A shadow fell over her, blotting out the light that blinded her sealed eyes and Faen felt long tendrils of hair tickle her face like the curious fingers of a child. Lips, full and soft, graced over the spot between her brows with such tenderness that Faen wanted to cry out in agony.  _

_ “I don’t understand…” she whispered. _

_ The woman’s lips held the shape of a smile. “That is quite alright. Do not trouble yourself over on unraveling this.” she said. _

_ Faen wanted to fight back, push this mysterious woman for answers that she was clearly not willing to give. But she felt helpless in it. This life, her new life, held a commonality that drove her to the edge of sanity. She was constantly in the dark, the farthest removed from the loop, the last to hear anything, if she ever heard at all.  _

_ Somehow, she kept her eyes closed but the anger overpowered her.  _

_ “No, it’s not alright,” Faen spat, “Everyone keeps things from me like I can’t know. If I hear about anything, I’m the last to know. All this, it’s  _ my  _ life! I can’t live it without someone acting as a damned filter!” _

_ Anger flared at the tips of her fingers, manifesting as sly fire dying to be released. Here, she did not have the control she had carefully and stubbornly honed over the years. Her magic was at the very edge of everything and rattling the cage it was in with every swell of emotion. Her disdain at the barest trickle of information from yet another mysterious voice was amplified. The distrust of being as unaware as a frog about anything regarding her freedom was magnified powerfully. _

_ This was the Fade. _

_ “Faen, calm yourself.” the voice commanded. _

_ But she could not. Her eyelids peeled back and everything fell away with a crash before she could see anything.  _

She was where she last remembered. Curled up in her bedroll in her tent. It took her a moment to process everything. Dreams were often disorienting. Slowly, everything came back to her, leaking in through a slow trickle. 

The dream did not fade into obscurity, but she was able to make sense of the physical world around her. Events from the past few days settled and she remembered everything. Two days ago, Empress Celene herself came to her, stormed her cell, and extended a hand so pale it was translucent. Honeyed words that spoke of freedom and dramatic apologies fell from her pale lips. Faen had never seen the Empress before. Her beauty was renowned, but up close, Faen saw a woman whose face was strikingly ordinary. From what wasn’t concealed by the mask, that was. 

A personal escort took her to where the Inquisition had resided for the duration of their stay. It was not the humble Inn she remembered, but a lavish, however small, apartment just above the bazaar. A woman donned all in white and embellished with glittering silver trinkets received her and introduced herself as Madame Vivienne de Fer. Her eyes were vibrant and prideful. At some point, she was reunited with familiar faces. 

Varric surprised her with the strength and ferocity of his hug, squeezing her so tight she felt her bones bend to accommodate. Cassandra flashed her a rare smile and squeezed her shoulder. Leliana and Josephine bombarded her with updates and plans of action, though that was not to say they did not treat her kindly or without understanding. Josephine slipped her some cookies — little airy things that seemed to melt in her mouth and tasted like sweet lemons — and the edge to Leliana’s eyes seemed to soften. Solas was pleasant enough, but she could see the unresolved questions swirling in his eyes. At the end of every word he said to her, she could feel the anger and questioning. Consternation festered with every passing moment their issue went unaddressed. 

But there was no time to address what she had done. Matters of public image took precedence. 

Somehow, someone with a tongue made entirely of gold, had convinced the Empress that the Inquisition had unearthed this grand scheme and purposely worked to oust it by sacrificing their most powerful piece. Whatever evidence was strong enough to convince the Empress of her innocence, the deep-seated corruption in Val Royeaux, and the Inquisition’s undeniable use. 

Faen was granted a single day to rest and gather her thoughts. Upon waking the next morning, they were off with Madame Vivienne in tow. Along the way, Sera was brought into the fold, which took a surprising amount of convincing on Faen’s part. The group was skeptical of the messy girl and Faen, for the life of her, couldn’t understand  _ why.  _ Sera’s hair was so sloppily cut that she was sure she did it herself without the aid of a mirror. Her clothes were rags soundly stitched together and patched with random swathes of fabric. The only thing she could find that would be distressing about the girl was the longbow strapped to her back. The weapon was likely fashioned more for a dwarf, seeing as it was more proportional to the height of one as opposed to an elf. Arms were of made of yew, Faen guessed, and polished to an alarming sheen for someone so ragged. Madame Vivienne protested the loudest of Sera’s joining. Faen reminded her that the Inquisition needed any who were willing to help and that Sera had been explicitly handed an invitation by her personally. 

So Sera joined. Not moments later were they stopped once more by an elven woman dressed in thick robes lined with lynx fur. Vivienne bristled on sight and just barely contained her composure enough to not explode. The woman introduced herself as Grand Enchanter Fiona and proposed a meeting between the rebel mages and fledgling Inquisition. No promise of an allegiance, but a promising open door to something that had previously been slammed shut and locked. Fiona parted with a scathing remark flung Vivienne’s way, though it was much in the fashion of Orlesians in that it was backhanded. 

Through all this, Faen felt as if she were walking through a dream and vaguely aware of what was happening. Heaviness drug her down, made her slow and uninterested in much of anything. One might mistake her mood for disbelief at her freedom, but that didn’t  _ feel  _ right. She was not in constant shock of being free, of having the ability to move about as she pleased. In many ways, her problem yet lingered. All that changed was the prison, the hands she was shifted to. 

_ Don’t be so dramatic. The Inquisition is nothing like Val Royeaux. _

Perhaps. But the principle was the same — held against her will for something beyond her control, instrumental in affairs she could not comprehend nor wanted anything to do with. Course, the Inquisition’s efforts were  _ noble  _ and  _ literally the only hope left. _ She could not deny that. Forever and always, though, would she hold a sort of tepid resentment for the fact that it was  _ her  _ who had to fix this mess. Plucked from her old life, a life she made peace with some time ago, and thrown into an entirely new one that she felt too small to comfortably fill it out. 

An incessant kneading of her stomach pulled her from her building anger. Gitta, eyes half-lidded with sleep, was kneading passionately, her small body rumbling with the power of her purring. Faen managed a small smile, her hand stroking Gitta’s supple fur. 

“I missed you,” she whispered.

Gitta answered with a soft meow. Faen liked to think it was her companion’s way of admitting she felt much the same. They sat in her tent, the tent she shared with no one so as to give her some rest, for a time until the world outside called too loudly for her to come into it. She dressed quickly, not bothering with the bulk of her armor, and instead opted for road leathers that were curiously resilient and sturdy. Her hair was simply braided off to the side, her mood not calling for anything too elaborate or complex. 

Exiting the tent was strange. A whole world faced her. Bright and alive, crawling with creatures smaller than her thumbnail, and hopelessly easy to get lost in. All that was of minimal concern to her at the moment, for her battle lied with the people in camp. 

‘Round a small fire sat her companions, Varric and Sera talking about something regarding steel-toed boots, Cassandra sharpening her blade, and Madame Vivienne sipping absently from a cup. Solas was noticeably absent from view, but it wasn’t long before she felt his eyes upon her back.

Something snapped as she entered the fold. Everyone stopped their activities, turned to her, a myriad of looks on their faces.

“Mornin’!” Sera called, breaking the expectant silence. She patted the spot beside her, “Sit, sit!”

Faen felt as if she were walking through a trap and was the only one who knew it. Without incident or shattering the world, she found her place beside Sera and Cassandra handed her a warm mug of…

“What is this?” she asked, sniffing it. It smelled of peppermint.

Blushing, the Seeker rubbed the back of her neck. “Peppermint tea. I thought you might enjoy a little indulgence,” she admitted.

She smiled. Cassandra was awkward and clueless about her life. She was short-tempered and stubborn. But she meant well. How long could that go, though? Faen sipped on the drink, humming quietly as the subtle flavor burst across her tongue and filled her mouth with warmth. It wasn’t scalding hot at all. 

“So,” Varric began, “How are you, kid? I hope you don’t mind my asking and all.”

Faen shrugged and ran her thumb across the rim of the small cup. All eyes were on her. The few Inquisition soldiers that traveled with them leaned a little closer. 

_ I really don’t know. _

“I’m good, actually,” she said, producing a false smile, “It’s...good to be out. To breathe the air and have it be fresh.”

He chuckled at that and passed her a tray of food.  _ Humble  _ food — a rabbit haunch the size of a child’s fist and boiled cabbage — but more appealing than the slop she’d been living off of. Appealing as it was, she was not all that hungry, but nibbled nonetheless to seem appreciative. Varric opened his mouth to say more when he was cut off.

“That is good to know,” Vivienne interjected, “But there are things that I must unfortunately draw everyone’s attention to and none of it is cheerful.” 

Sera groaned and fell back theatrically to emphasize her annoyance. “Here we go,” she mumbled and Varric sighed in agreement.

“Is now really the time?” he asked, resting his elbows on his knees.

Faen could hear Solas stalking forth to listen more intently to her. Despite all the protest, Vivienne’s face was a pretty thing to look at and betrayed no signs of mutual annoyance. “I do believe so, dear,” she enunciated smoothly.

“Out with it then,” Solas called. He looked...agitated. Internally, Faen sighed. That was most definitely her doing. 

“As I’m you are all aware, public opinion of the Inquisition, the Herald specifically, was low due to her imprisonment. It was skeptical to begin with, but now, I’m afraid, it has sunk significantly,” said Vivienne, “A public pardon from the Empress had but a crumb of worth to the people. The people are easily swayed, but they do not forget with that same ease.”

Beside her, Cassandra leaned forward, her face contorted with worry. “What are you saying?” she asked.

Faen felt an inexplicable surge of bitterness. Deep down, she knew whatever efforts they made to prove corruption in the ranks of anything, what mattered was the charges and accusations leveled against her. It was, much like her magic, pressed down and ignored. Pulling it up and flaunting it about made it real, something she could no longer ignore with the same poise as before. “She’s saying our reputation in Val Royeaux, possibly all of Orlais, is royally fucked. We don’t have their support whatsoever. Am I correct, Lady Vivienne?” she croaked. Strange as it was, she was on the verge of laughter. 

“Partially, my dear. You are correct in that the Inquisition’s reputation lies in shambles. Amongst the  _ people _ , that is. To the crown, however, we are owed something,” Vivienne said, “The people cling to the fact that the Herald supposedly murdered three perfectly innocent guardsmen.”

Solas snorted. “I was certain they would,” he grumbled, “Three dead men will forever burn brighter than the underlying reality. People see strings when they want to.”

“And they don’t want to, not now.” Faen added. His eyes met hers and through his guarded anger, there was agreement.

“That’s human nature for you…” Varric griped, promptly following it with a long swig from a flask he drew from somewhere in his jacket. 

It was impossible to  _ not  _ see the vivid sharpening of Vivienne’s gaze as it fell upon Varric, the look in her eyes meant to squash that line of thinking completely. “That is the nature of  _ all  _ people, regardless of race.” she bit back.

Shrugging, Varric screwed the cap back on his flask and tucked it away in the depths of his jacket. Faen noted how well-worn it was. Signs of stress were evident at the seams connecting the sleeves to the body of it and in the cuffs. She wondered how old it was, why it was as worn as it was.

“You can think that, no one’s stopping you,” he responded. It was his best attempt as diffusing the situation while also having the last word on it. She was impressed because it  _ worked.  _

A sharp inhale later, Vivienne turned her attention back to the rest of the group. Her words were no longer targeted, but meant for everyone. “Hopeless it may seem, do not give up yet. The people need a reason to trust the Inquisition, to not sneer at the mention of it,” Vivienne advised, “They can be won back, if you play your cards right.”

Her temples throbbed. It wasn’t so much the heralding of an impending headache as it was an extensive awareness of the vessel that rested there. Honestly, Faen would’ve preferred it to be a headache and not the uncomfortable and explicit thunder of blood through her veins. She scowled and dug her thumb into a pesky vein, applying enough pressure to cease the pulsation enough to the point that she could think. 

Hope, or the lack of it, was a common theme these days. Persistent and annoying, that’s what it was, and Faen did not appreciate it.  _ Let me be,  _ she begged. She swiftly sobered up, though, pushing aside her feelings for now to focus on the matter at hand.

“And what do you s’pose we do about it, lil miss?” Sera called. 

Once more, Vivienne’s eyes sharpened as they fell on another who spoke nonsense according to her. There was an obstinate firmness to her that Faen envied. One that was utterly confident and wielded perfectly. 

“I do not respond to anything other than ‘Madame Vivienne’ or ‘Lady Vivienne.’ ‘First Enchanter,’ if you must.” she warned.

Everyone gathered around braced themselves for serious fallout whenever they saw Sera’s features screw up in mock-confusion. They had traveled together for less than a day and somehow, they both managed to have an absolute and perfect understanding of their buttons. More specifically, what buttons to push for the sweet satisfaction of pissing the other off.

“Wait…” Sera mused, “You told us to call you ‘Vivienne,’ yeah? No fancy titles and all that.”

Remarkable as Vivienne’s resolve might be, Sera weakened it with her phony naivete. And yes, Sera’s naivete was positively  _ fake,  _ that’s what riled the Enchantress so. “To others in our group, it is simply Vivienne,” she cooed, “To  _ you _ , honorifics are non-negotiable and sorely needed. You could do with some manners, my dear. And a bath.”

Just as everyone expected, whatever  _ this  _ was, could not end as easily as they all wished. Puffing up, Sera prepared herself for a retort (probably littered with curses galore and colorful metaphors), but on the first syllable, Cassandra lost her patience.  _ “Enough,”  _ she ordered. That seemed to silence them both, thoroughly shocking everyone that the Lady of Iron herself could be silenced by anyone other than herself. Cassandra urged her to continue with her suggestions.

Rearranging herself, Vivienne set to it. “Right now, the most powerful commodity in this world is stability. People hunger for it. It’s a thing only of dreams,” Vivienne said, “The Inquisition could give them the stability they yearn for. Do things for the people of Orlais, show them you mean to give them peace and safety.”

Faen avoided her penetrating gaze, instead opting to peer into the fire and see if she could see women dancing fervently in its depths. If memory served, A’len had made comments through the years about the women seen in flames. Depending on the dance and the appearance of the woman, she insisted, there was a message being conveyed. Remembering the details was the problem. But what did A’len know of women dancing in the flames? Her eyes were empty and sightless. 

Yet, she still looked into it intently, trying hard to let the world fall away until only the fire itself remained. At her back, she felt Gitta brush up against her, her little greeting chirp distracting her a bit.

_ What do you see? _

_ I see… _

The set of eyes upon her were hard to resist, for they breathed a power into her that was shocking and deep. Powerful as it was, it was not malicious or demanding. More...curious and on her in the way someone stares at something they’re trying to understand. She snapped out of her self-inflicted trance to catch the on-looker. Her senses were drawn to Solas. She found him staring at her neutrally, eyes void of their previous anger, but brewing with something she couldn’t place. Awareness broke the spell. He blinked, granting the anger to return and the power to seep away as he looked elsewhere. 

“Pray tell, Enchantress, how can we grant the people this precious stability?” he asked. 

“Ally yourselves with the Templars,” Vivienne suggested robustly. 

The fire it ignited took quicker than anyone anticipated. Almost the second the words fell from her lips, commotion erupted. Varric was so impassioned by his opposition that he leapt to his feet and began to pace, spewing reasons, reasons Faen agreed with, on why that was a horrible idea. Sera similarly yet alternatively gave reasons as to why it was a  _ better  _ idea than the mages, though still made it clear neither option was spectacularly stunning. Cassandra rationally weighed the pros and cons. And Vivienne watched the madness unfold with indifference. 

Solas remained as quiet as ever, seemingly more content with distancing himself from them than joining in. The only indication of a response was the bugle of muscle in his forehead. Their eyes met for a split second, but he only needed that brief breath to tell her what she needed to know. 

_ Come.  _

And he turned from the group, arms falling to his side and his strides tight and directed as he disappeared into the treeline. Faen heard the pop of her knuckle as she pressed at it with her thumb as if it were in her ear. 

Confused calls hardly registered in her head as she followed him. She mumbled something about needing a bathroom break and waved them off. He was out of sight but the path he took was obvious. Solas stood in a clearing, one hand rolling absently over his bald head. His back was turned to her.

Now that she was here, she didn’t want to do this. Was she in any way capable of explaining herself? As it were, she could barely push past the numbness enough to breathe, let alone deal with him. His wrath was not something she’d experienced personally or even seen. Somewhere deep inside her, a little part of her thrilled at the prospect of watching someone who seemed so put together come apart however slightly. It wasn’t an especially big part, though, and the overwhelming sense of dread dwarfed it.

She opened her mouth and closed it back almost instantly, startled that the words at the tip of her tongue were  _ angry. _

“Say it,” she said.

Solas turned to her, face blank. “Say what?” he asked and she felt like slapping him.

“You’re mad at me,” Faen elaborated, “It’s obvious.”

He inhaled deeply, his eyes falling shut as he savored the breath. “I see youth has not changed since I last inhabited it,” he said, “You confuse what is most easily acceptable with something that is obvious. You think you know everything.”

“Don’t patronize me! I did this for  _ you! _ I was thinking of  _ you! _ ” she roared a little horsley, “Returning the fucking favor for saving my life and you’re mad at me.”

His eyes shot open. “You do not _get _to think of individuals,” he warned sternly, “You do not _get _to play with your life anymore because you want to spare someone an outcome you dislike. I am not mad at you, Faen.”  
Burning, agonizing burning, pulled at her throat as she swallowed. Her bottom lip trembled. Eyes felt too full. She was on the verge of crying. _“Why?” _she pleaded, _“It’s mine. Not theirs. I do not belong to them.”_

His face was disgustingly blank. So blank and smooth she could catch a glimpse of her pathetic face in it if she tried hard enough. “You do, though,  _ da’len.  _ The second you stepped out of the Fade, bearing that mark, the world took unwavering ownership of you,” he admitted and his voice betrayed his stern expression with the slightest waver, “I did not ask you to take my place, nor would I have ever condoned it. I strongly disagree with what you did, but implying I am mad at you is a stretch.”

That almost felt worse. She couldn’t rationalize it, though, no matter how hard she tried. She wiped at her eyes, grimacing at the wetness spread across the back of her hand, and sniffled. “I don’t want you to,” she admitted childishly.

“Why does what I think matter that much to you?” Solas asked. His voice wavered uncomfortably between authentic curiosity and scathing suspicion. 

Why  _ did  _ it matter so much to her? Thoughts twisted and turned into knots and then balls of knots as she tried to figure out  _ why.  _

Well...it was rather simple. She had latched herself onto him immediately, took immense comfort in him and his wisdom. She did not  _ know him at all  _ but she wanted to. More than she’d ever wanted anything. He treated her like a person, a feat not accomplished since the death of A’len. It was...intoxicating and overwhelming. He could tell her the sky was purple and her hair looked like a rat had nested in it and she would beg him to tell her why because he had to  _ know.  _

Looking at it now, it was startling to recognize the swiftness of it all. She was wholeheartedly  _ embarrassed  _ by it. Faeneth Lavellan, raised on the fringes of her clan and so severely independent, isolated, wanted to lean on him. 

“I…” she began.

He sighed. “I did not bring you here to discuss  _ my  _ feelings. I’ve heard the others ask how you are,” he said gently, “You give them answers, but they ring hollow as a bell. It’s evident and they do not listen as they should.”

Faen smiled sadly. “And you do,” she said.

“It’s done me well thus far,” he said, “I ask you plainly, with no expectations or judgements: how are you? How do you feel?”

An old habit she thought she’d kicked reared its head. When she realized she was chewing at the inside of her cheek, it dawned on her that she had been doing it for some time. Her tongue ran over the flesh on her cheeks, feeling how rough and raw it was. She released her jaw instantly, groaning internally at her mindless antics. It was all to keep her mind from wondering how she truly felt. Could she even reach that deep?

Everything she felt was just barely contained as it was, a few moments prior coming dangerously close to rupturing and spilling out all over across everything in sight. Close as she was, it wasn’t like she could understand what those feelings, those emotions were. She wondered why. She lived in her own head every second she drew breath, and yet it was as enigmatic a thing to her as a profound craving for fermented fish. Illiterate was the word that came to mind. Her feelings were words on a page she could not read, but understood perfectly if read aloud. But no one would read them aloud to her.

No, it wasn’t that she couldn’t. She didn’t want to.

“I think…” she began, searching for the words. They moved around all over her tongue like antsy little bugs. Here one second and then there the next. 

She swallowed. She could not still the words enough. “I don’t know,” she admitted painfully, “I can’t...I’ll tell you. When I know myself.”

Solas looked at her as she shuffled around nervously, his gaze bearing down on her skin with a peculiar weight. It was not the tingle of exploratory power cautiously knocking at her door and then trying the handle like it was earlier, back in camp. Instead, it was a hovering hand over her back, questioning if she needed to have comforting circles rubbed into her. His look was full of worry saddled with an understanding that pressing would get him nowhere. “I understand. Should you discover it,” he confided, “I will listen.”

Faen met his eyes. Something connected between them, but it was so brief she wondered if she had imagined it. “You’ll regret that,” she warned him in weary jest. A joke at first that slowly brewed into a possible reality. 

“That is unlikely,” he maintained. He smiled freely. 

When he turned to leave, she stopped him. Called his name softly enough that she worried he wouldn’t hear it, but he did. He turned to face her.

“When we get back to Haven,” she started, suddenly feeling her magic simmer in her belly, “I want to continue with our lessons.”

“Of course, Faen. That was never in doubt.”

Perhaps not to him. For her, howbeit, it was. She never intended to stand where she was, amongst tall trees alive with graceful leaves and chatty birds. She never intended to have the ability to be pulled aside and questioned earnestly, or be able to talk through an anger she never really meant to direct at him. 

Time ended in that dreary cell in the underbelly of the grandest city in all the world. Having it start back up was more jarring than she could’ve anticipated.

-+-

Camp was broken in record time, the few Inquisition soldiers who accompanied the group being quite proficient at the art of speedy and efficient packing. Expecting anything different was maybe outrageous considering that all three of them spoke of previous time in various forces from their countries of origin. Talath, a man Faen was surprised to hear was fully elf-blooded, told the story of how he blunted his ears to join the King’s army at Ostagar at the beginning of the Fifth Blight. Come to find out recruiters were not concerned by ear shape or height at all, just manning the field in any way they could. Reena was a woman who hailed from Starkhaven and was once counted amongst the city guard, but was dishonorably discharged for milking a goat  _ “a little too vigorously” _ . No, Reena would never elaborate. The strangest of all was the stone-cold man only ever referred to as “V” and Varric told her was a rare qunari-human mix. Talath spoke for him, as V could only communicate through grunts and eye-fucking apparently. But Talath spun a tale about how V had been everywhere, enlisted in all sorts of roles throughout his life, and this was his most recent crusade. 

They were on the road and making considerable ground. By midday, they’d stopped only once and that was for Sera to relieve herself, though it wasn’t as simple as her walking off into the woods to go about her business and returning unscathed. Somehow, she’d disturbed an entire hive of bees so thoroughly that they attacked her in full and chased her off. There was initial concern that she would actually  _ die  _ from all the bee venom, but after a once-over from Vivienne, it was decided she would live to see another day. Prideful as she was to have walked away with her life, she complained relentlessly.

By the time they’d reached the quaint village southeast of Val Foret, everyone was thoroughly acquainted with all the numerous similes Sera used to explain the stings on her arse. And they were all done with it. 

Talath and Cassandra contemplated their next step. Talath suggested pushing forward while they still had light, under the assumption that if they pushed the horses, they would cross into the Heartlands by nightfall. Ridiculously naive is what Cassandra called it. She pointed out that their mounts were no great beasts imbued with the Maker’s swiftness. They were sturdy, but old, more accustomed to ploughing fields than conquering long distances in short windows of time. Varric injected himself into the debate by adding that while Talath was just trying to make good time, the light he spoke of was slipping further and further beyond the horizon with every passing moment, and the village (unmarked on most maps and virtually nameless) was a much more preferable place to rest than out in the wild. 

Compromise was made. However, that word was a touch too strong for the decision reached. In the end, Talath’s idea was abandoned but silenced only by the promise that they would leave at the very break of dawn. 

Seeing as the village was so small, the local inn was more of a spare building with a single hearth and no rooms, just bedrolls on the floor. It came as a pleasant surprise to Faen that this “inn” wasn’t packed full of people. But the cost for one night soon made up for the emptiness of it. Coin was coughed up after some dirty looks were exchanged and everyone settled in as much as they could given the circumstances. A fire was roaring in no time and the empty hall, not quite grand but not cramped, was soon alive with chatter and the sound of eating. 

After dinner, Faen slipped away from the group. Being inside was old. Being within such close proximity to everyone was foreign. She wanted fresh air, the feel of the evening breeze on her skin, and stretch her legs. A short walk had her at the local well. At her feet was Gitta, body rumbling with purrs. 

She was not sure why she stayed by the well. It wasn’t especially fantastic or striking. But she lingered for a time, eyes stuck on the seemingly bottomless pit of it for what felt like hours. Realistically, it couldn’t have been more than a single hour at most. As she looked down that well, she wondered if anyone had ever fallen in. Was anyone down there? So old and forgotten that the village built around it never had to worry about contamination? What if someone fell down there but never died? She could see it now: some freakish wisp of a person staring back up at her with as many questions as she had looking down at them. 

The peace was disrupted by the sound of gravel crunching beneath boots. Not just any boots, but ones with a considerable heel. She did not turn to face Vivienne.

“I feel the need to introduce myself once more,” the Enchantress said casually, “Our first meeting was decent enough, but you seem the kind to have no use for formalities.”

Vivienne pressed herself up against the well, her body so close Faen could feel the heat of her. “My name is Vivienne de Fer of the Montsimmard Circle. I found myself elected First Enchanter of Montsimmard at a young enough age to cause a wonderful scandal. I am the mistress of Duke Bastien de Ghislain and have found it to be yet another title I hold to be worthy of a scandal. I was Court Enchanter to Empress Celene. I have been and am many things,” she said, “And now I am here, with the Inquisition.”

Faen was silent as she reflected on her words. “I thought you hailed from the Ostwick Circle,” was all she said.

Vivienne lightly snorted. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me,” she said.

Faen shrugged. “I have, but I’ve heard of lots of people.” 

“I take it you know about my heading of the Loyalist mages then,” posed Vivienne.

“I do.”

“I am curious as to what you think on that matter.”

Looking to her, Faen saw the understated conviction in her posture, the unshakable pride in the cant of her head. She’d heard tales of peacocks and wondered if the Enchantress resembled them in any way. “I haven’t thought about it, in all honesty,” Faen revealed, “Human politics aren’t my foremost concern.”

Vivienne’s brows shot up. “You mean to tell me you have  _ no  _ opinion on the matter of Circles?” she clarified.

“Lady Vivienne, what exactly are you trying to get at with this line of questioning?” Faen asked, frowning. She hoped her tone was more confused than aggressive.

“I did not try to get at anything,” Vivienne maintained, “I just find it better that people know upfront where I stand. Any discussion regarding the Circles and their fate can get testy on a good day and descend into complete madness on a bad one. Contrary to popular belief, I do not lust for conflict as strongly as everyone believes.”

Faen hadn’t the time or the care to formulate an opinion on the Enchantress. Their first meeting had been clouded by a haze so thick Faen couldn’t even remember it. She knew her name and some of what that entailed, that she was in some way responsible for her freedom, and that she had pledged herself to the Inquisition. Opulence surrounded the woman, enough for anyone to understandably pause and consider what she  _ really  _ knew about anything. But she had been trained from a young age to single out the small things. After all, such attention could be the difference between life and death. 

While Vivienne was undoubtedly sinfully rich and held power that was a touch unfair, she wasn’t...clueless.  _ As  _ clueless, at least. Gilded as it may have been, Vivienne had lived in a cage her whole life. She understood what it meant to be watched at every moment, was aware of the ecosystems borne of intense scrutiny. 

Somewhere, something screamed at the very top of its lungs that being clueless was a far better mantle to take up. Whatever this may be, Vivienne’s stance  _ looked  _ like blatant dismissal of a corrupt system to better her position. Yet, looks could be infinitely deceiving. Faen hadn’t the full story, had only just readied her nail to scratch the surface. 

Being as upfront as Vivienne was being was authentic enough to give her pause. 

“I do not believe in the Circles,” Faen eventually said, breaking the lofty silence, “Mages are not animals to be locked away and beaten into submission.”

At her side, she could hear Vivienne’s slow inhale, her languid exhale. “Do not take offense to this, my dear, but what would you know of the true nature of mages?” she queried, “You say you are against Circles, indirectly saying you are against the role of Templars, but it is the Dalish, your people, who turn out mages should their be an excess into the wilderness. Is that any kinder?”

Faen suppressed a bark of laughter. “Is that what they tell you?” she began, “Clans, should they reach this mystical number of mages, throw away the rest into the wilderness to fend for themselves?”

Rhetorical as her question might’ve been, Faen was curious to see if she would answer. She did not.

“My people view magic as a gift. An unquestionable part of the world that is to be handled carefully, yes, but ultimately respected. We do not turn out ‘excess’ mages, we gift them to clans less fortunate.”

“Traded like cattle, then.” Vivienne noted.

Faen frowned and turned to her. Vivienne’s face was lax and unbothered. “Given a life of freedom and ease to practice magic for the betterment of their people.” she retorted.

“‘Magic exists to  _ serve  _ man,  _ not  _ rule over Him.’” Vivienne recited.

“I did not take you for a religious woman.”

“I’m not as pious as some, but there’s truth to the Maker’s words.”

“His words do not ring true to everyone, least of all my people. There’s nothing special about the mages amongst the Dalish. They are no more tame or unruly than mages in the Circle,” Faen said, “I don’t think the Maker’s words should be interpreted as the large scale imprisonment of people whose only crime was being born.”

Vivienne gave a slow nod. “I see your point, but I must say I do not reach the same conclusions as you. You find it baffling that humans spread tales of Dalish heartlessness with their mages.  _ I  _ find it baffling that the tales of Circles entail beatings and rapes, Rites of Tranquility every day and Templars in complete control,” she said, “I have never been held against my will. There hasn’t been a day in my life when any of that was the reality. But I cannot speak for all mages and therein lies the problem: Circle experiences vary too enormously. 

“My brethren look at me and see a woman, a mage, who has done far better for herself than they could ever dream of. They think I have gotten here because I choose to ignore the plights of the less fortunate. In some ways, they are correct and that is my mammoth shame. But I am beyond well aware that I am where I am because of the environment of the Circle I came from. If every Circle was like Ostwick or Montsimmard…”

Vivienne looked wistful in the dying light. Her sharp features softened considerably, no longer holding the hard edge of shrewdness and sly prodding. The Enchanter looked ageless to begin with, not a wrinkle in sight but possessing a sort of air that made it possible to determine her age, yet there was an undeniable youth to her now. She looked contemplative and...sad. Faen felt a compulsion to reach out and touch her. But that look was one she knew well. The sadness in her eyes couldn’t be remedied by touch or anything she could say or do. 

“The Circles offered me a place to study and grow in safety. Could I have tamed my magic on my own? No. Could I hold the power I do now if I had remained in some sorry village my entire life? No. What the Circles desperately need is a rigid standard, one reflective of the Circles I knew.  _ That  _ is what the Loyalists stand for.”

Her goal was admirable. Still, Faen struggled to see how the Circles themselves were the answer. “Ambitious, indeed.” Faen commented quietly.

Vivienne laughed. “As I’m sure you well know. Your aim is to fix the whole world, yes? Perhaps the very definition of ambitious, my dear,” she declared. Silence and then a sigh. “Our paths are not easy, are they?”

Faen did not want to answer. Hardship was nothing new. It was not something she refused to face. But this was a totally new type of hardship, one that scarcely anyone was accustomed to and one that could not be so easily defined. A hard winter is a hardship. A scant hunt is a hardship. A tear in the sky, more demons pouring through every hour, a delicate balance flipped on its head...was there even a word for it? Any of it? Pure madness was in the realm of accurate, but it wasn’t strong enough. “They’re not,” she finally recognized.

“What will all this take from us?” Vivienne continued and Faen saw that she was no longer physically present at her side. The Enchantress was far away, somewhere unknown to anyone in the world besides herself. “Who will we be by the end?”

Her expression of her thoughts and fears were making Faen a bit uncomfortable. She felt like she was intruding, yes. What was far more uncomfortable was the fact that Faen wondered those things herself. Hearing them outloud felt like having bugs crawling over every inch of her. 

“You and I have so much to learn from each other,” Vivienne said, turning to her, “Two different worlds, forever at odds with one another. And for why? Because someone said so?”

Hearing a human of Vivienne’s position speak so plainly on the divide was...bizarre, if not slightly cherished. Acknowledgment was rare, desire to overcome even rarer. Yet questioning the current order was not enough to absolve her of distrust completely, but it was more of a start for anyone she’s come across. 

“Someone’s been saying it for longer than you and I know,” Faen commented.

“True,” Vivienne pointed out, “But I get the impression that you do not take too kindly to ancient echoes demanding this or that. More than that, I get the impression you don’t take too kindly to  _ anyone  _ demanding this or that.”

Faen flashed a small, knowing smile. Still, it was reserved and unwilling to give up too much. Cold unresponsiveness was a sure way to kill what was here already and it wasn’t something Faen was ready to dismiss entirely just yet. 

“You’re in luck, my dear, for I am much the same.” Vivienne said, offering a smile herself. 

They said no more after that, a peaceful moment of quiet immersion in a place that seemed so far removed from all the bullshit of the rest of the world. The breeze on Faen’s skin felt like it always did. The chirp of the crickets sounded the same as they did deep in the forests, where the Clan nestled down for a time. Here, in this little nameless village, there were no signs of the disastrous state of the world. Mages and Templars were as far removed an issue as any, hatred and bigotry was inconceivable. Virtually untouched by anything that wasn’t worry over how many would be over for dinner, will harvest be swift this year, when will the village newlyweds consider having a baby. 

The simplicity of life here made her long for her clan in a way that made her feel sick. Had she thought of them since all this madness started? She couldn’t remember. And it didn’t matter; she thought of them now and it was strange. They were not missing her, that she was sure of, but...it didn’t matter because she missed them. Keeper Deshanna was kind in her secret way, making sure that Faen was never too terribly removed from the clan, and that was more than what she needed. Life with the clan had been simple, so painfully simple, and Faen had somehow convinced herself into believing that she was content with what that life offered. 

She could handle the polite distance, the skillful aversion to her, and the whispers if it meant simplicity. Dwelling in familiarity was comfort she couldn’t appreciate until she was removed from it. 

Tears burned at the back of her throat as she thought more and more on the clan and the happenings in it. Had Kenalah had her baby yet? Had Varel claimed his first kill on his own? Had the twins settled their differences? 

Vivienne’s shift at her side drew her out of her head. Without a word, she departed from her place at the well and began the walk back to the poor excuse for an inn. But before she left…

“Vivienne…” Faen called.

The Enchantress turned back to her, eyebrow raised.

“Thank you,” Faen declared firmly, “I understand it was you whom I owe my freedom to and I don’t think I properly thanked you.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Vivienne said lightly, “I fully expect you to fix the world as repayment.”

_ Doesn’t everyone? _

* * *

They were gone by dawn the next morning, their party well on their way by the time the sun rose. 

Despite sleeping better on the hard floor of the deserted inn than he had in any bed in Val Royeaux, Solas could not shake the exhaustion from his limbs or head. He was used to rising early, but there was something emphatically draining about waking before the sun. Of course, it wasn’t helped by the fact that the previous few days have been spent mounted atop a horse at one pace below breakneck speed. And before that, his days were troubled by political nonsense. 

He was exhausted long before his head hit his bedroll, to say the least.

It was made worse by the fact that he refused to drift into the Fade until Faen returned from her walk. Varric and him seemed to be the only ones in their party who cared whether she returned or not, for everyone else went to bed long before she came back. The two men stayed up to wait, hope fluttering when the door to the building opened, but only the Enchantress returned. Solas had suspected Vivienne had sought her out and his suspicions were concerned when she made the comment that Faen was soon to follow. 

Opinions on the matter aside, she was off the mark by a few. Faen was  _ not  _ soon to follow. By the time she slipped back into the warm room, Varric had given in to sleep and Solas was the only other person in the whole village who was awake besides her. They shared a brief look, one that communicated a good bit more than words could. Her eyes were tired, as his were, but they seemed lighter. She even smiled at him in her odd way.

When they settled down, Faen’s bedroll over from him by two people, he told her goodnight and she returned the sentiment. 

She rode ahead of him now. Solas wanted to spur his horse forward, close the gap between them, and prod her on how she was feeling today, what had the Enchantress said. But he wouldn’t. It was not his nature to pester, nor was it his nature to insert himself into the business of others. Whatever his opinions on Vivienne were, he would keep them to himself. If Faen ever asked, he would divulge what he thought was necessary for her to know, but that was it. 

As for her feelings, he would wait patiently for her to figure that out. The mind was a delicate thing, not entirely receptive to harsh and frequent onslaughts of pestering and rummaging. He treated her as he would want to be treated. Gave her the space she needed to piece things together at her own pace. While he was more than happy to give her that space, he refused to take his eyes off of her. 

It amazed him that back in that clearing in the forest, when she came so close to letting loose a flood, her magic hadn’t sparked in the slightest. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t in the event of another moment such as that one. So it was better to monitor her, feel her magic out as slyly as he could without alerting her to his presence, and calm her should things escalate once more. 

Yet the more he thought on it...Faen’s case was a wholly unique one. He’d told her outright that her reasons were her own for hiding her magic, but now he began to wonder at it profusely. How had she avoided demons her entire life? How had she controlled her magic so well without so much as another mage to show her how to tame it? To him, if her magic was so starved that it wouldn’t flare up in a highly emotional situation, she shouldn’t have been able to reach it  _ at all.  _ Magic wasn’t like a muscle that atrophied over time if not used. It could not die or lessen in the sense that people nowadays could comprehend. With that said, magic  _ was  _ alive. Very much alive. A living breathing thing that would build up over time and become this amalgamation of pure power and raw emotion. He didn’t understand…

But that was for another time. If he was anything, he was patient. Answers come to the man who  _ lets _ them come to him, afterall. There would be a time and place to voice his questions. 

For now, he watched her. And it wasn’t entirely based on worry for an outburst. He understood the impact of imprisonment quite well. He saw the disregard from their companions, all save for Varric, about her well-being and adjustment. It saddened him. Faen was young, almost cruelly so, and to be thrust into a world such as this with as much expectation from her as there was as equally cruel. Solas recalled that night on the balcony, his nose full of her scent and thoughts occupied with his...what? Regret? Guilt?  _ What was it?  _ In that moment, her struggle became one her understood better than he thought he did. In that moment, he could push aside her disconnect from  _ everything  _ and could see something that transcended time and blood: someone struggling immensely. 

It gnawed at him that he cared about her well-being like this. He couldn’t let it be that it was enough to just  _ sympathize.  _ Instead, he had to put himself in her shoes and see through her eyes, care beyond what was decent enough. 

Wisdom would have a great deal to say about this. So he avoided it every night he slept, which only frustrated him further. Confiding in Wisdom was like confiding in another part of himself — natural and completely harmless. But Wisdom, unlike him, was  _ not  _ him. Wisdom would rationalize and present a perspective he didn’t want to see. Wisdom would kindly but firmly point out that he was avoiding seeing that point in the first place. And it would be  _ infuriating. _

So for the rest of the journey, things continued like that: Solas watching and occasionally catching her eye. Faen keeping relatively quiet on most everything. 

When they finally arrived back at Haven, there was an entire entourage of people awaiting her at the gates, most of the people present badgering her with questions of their Herald’s imprisonment. There was a select group who were there to discuss business with her, people such as Cullen, and promptly whisked her away to attend to affairs that swelled in her absence. He did not see her the rest of that day. Nor the next, for that was when Leliana and Josephine arrived. They had stayed in Val Royeaux to do what they could to preserve their reputation as much as possible and iron out some bothersome details. 

In the time Faen was absent, Solas busied himself rather sufficiently. That was until Varric came knocking around, suddenly possessed by the urge to know Solas on a more personal level. Truth be told, he liked their professional relationship. He wasn’t averse to getting to know Varric, but Varric was entirely more concerned with getting to know  _ him,  _ not the other way around. As to be expected, he didn’t appreciate that. Solas deflected his questions and roguish attempts at working away at his guard to the best of his ability. But a man’s patience could only wear so thin before it became too much.

“One might think themselves a suspect in a heinous act based on your line of questioning, Master Tethras,” Solas dared suggest after Varric’s millionth attempt to get him to open up.

Varric shrugged, his mouth cocked in a lazy smirk. “On the contrary, Chuckles, I find this air of mystery surrounding you to be  _ quite  _ enchanting,” he cajoled, “As much as I don’t want to break the spell, I’m a naturally curious man. Very prone to giving into my curiosity.”

Solas did not look up from the tome he was laboring over (the translation of it was more work than he anticipated and was stubbornly hellbent on cracking it  _ today _ ), but he did give a roll of his eyes. “Clearly,” he muttered under his breath.

“Yes, yes, my nature is very apparent, we can’t all be an enigma like you,” Varric continued to tease, “Just give me  _ something _ . Mom and pop’s name, favorite childhood toy, most scandalous secret.”

Huffing, Solas turned to face Varric. His eyes were unmistakably kind and it felt like an absolute cruelty to deny him the answers he sought. Not enough of a cruelty to stop him. “How about this: what is  _ your _ relationship with your parents? What’s Bianca’s story? You don’t treat a  _ weapon  _ with as much tenderness as you do and not have a story to tell. Why aren’t you with Hawke? Why aren’t you married?” he asked with increasing urgency.

Much to his surprise, Varric’s mood didn’t sour the way he thought. His face remained somewhat impassive, the only sign that he heard any of it a small nod. “Touche, Chuckles,” he gave in.

Solas sighed. “Please, I know what you must think of me. A random apostate from nowhere offering his expertise on events such as these while keeping his lips somewhat tight?” he said, “It writes itself. But...there are a great deal of things we keep to ourselves, not for the sake of secrecy, but for selfish reasons.”

The look in Varric’s eyes was one he understood. It looked wrong in Varric’s eyes. The dwarf threw out this idea of himself that was unbothered, somewhat jovial, easy-going. For the first time, Solas saw that it was a weak half-truth. 

“You’re telling me,” Varric said absently. He was fiddling with his rings again. 

“I did not mean to remind you of unpleasant things,” Solas apologized.

Varric snapped out of his haze, the place he was previously in nothing but a distant memory. He ran a hand over his face. “You didn’t,” he assured him, even slipping him a smile, “Don’t worry about it.”

He moved to leave and Solas felt like he couldn’t leave it at that. “Where are you going?” he called.

Turning in the doorway, Varric hooked his thumb in the direction of the gates. “Watch the recruits train. It’s weirdly satisfying to watch Curly get as frustrated as he does with fresh blood. Nothing like it,” he said, “You’re welcome to join. If we’re lucky, Cassandra will be there, beating the ever-living shit out of some poor dummy.” 

Solas hated how intrigued he was. He followed Varric through Haven, eyes peeled for Faen, but ultimately resigning himself to the fact that she’d been preoccupied for days with, quite frankly, political bullshit and would likely remain that way for a time more. Glimpses were all he’d seen since their arrival in Haven two days before. She’d looked tired and more than a little ill with everything. Once or twice, he’d considered knocking on the door to her cabin to check in on her, maybe offer her a brief lesson in the variations of glyphs or how slightly tweaking the formulae for fire magic would give her ice magic. He stopped himself, though, knowing she was exhausted enough. 

Precious little he saw of Faen, he  _ did  _ pass by Gitta sitting atop a barrel just outside the gates, tail swishing leisurely back and forth. She eyed him intently, the slits of her pupils widening as if she were planning to pounce on him.

_ I cannot stress enough how  _ strongly _ I’d advise against that course of action. _

_ I can think of a few things I’d just as strongly advise against as well. _

He passed by her without incident, fortunately. From what he gathered, few people in Haven paid much mind to the cat. He wondered if anyone saw her at all. She really only seemed to bother people when wanted to, even then her sights were set on a handful of people. Faen (of course), him, one of the cooks, a little human boy named Travis, and that Templar woman, Lysette. With all these people she bothered, it seemed  _ he _ was the one the cat could stand the least. Unsurprising, all things considered.

The training field, if one could call that, was little more than an open area that the rest of Haven couldn’t find a use for. Sloppy training dummies made from random materials scrounged together lined one side of the field, recruits of various builds and ability hacking away at the rugged things. His fingers itched to pour his magic into the lifeless sacks of hay, animate their primitive bodies to test the recruits at least somewhat. Doing so would frighten the daylights out of them, especially if unannounced. A mischievous smile split his lips at the thought. 

In the center of the field was the replacement for Commander Cullen — a stocky woman decked out in leathers — barking out orders, correcting techniques, and dishing out praise when deserved, which was rare. He followed Varric to the very edge of the field, his feet filling the prints in the snow made before him, where Cassandra was hacking and slashing at a dummy more primitive in make than the ones the regular recruits hit. Her focus was razor sharp, brows knitted in concentration, and nostrils flared with exertion. Her close-cropped hair stuck at her temples. Whether by unadulterated willpower or intensity of focus, she didn’t acknowledge either man’s presence in her peripherals. 

Varric watched with a gleam in his eye, his hand rubbing at his chin as he assessed Cassandra’s form. “Don’t put so much effort into the swing, Seeker,” he lectured lightly, “You trying to exhaust yourself?”

She didn’t pry her eyes off the dummy. “What do  _ you  _ know about sword fighting?” she huffed, rearing back for another swing.

The last time Solas had taken up a sword was at the very beginning of the Rebellion. It wasn’t enough to favor distance — his people needed to see him amongst them, fighting alongside them with as much vigor and investment as the rest of them. The fight was won that day and he never picked up a sword again. Slinging fireballs was...different than the feel of running someone through with a blade. He did not like it. Regardless, he remembered a bit of what he knew from back in the day. Cassandra preferred a style he did not share, her swings broad and slow but powerful, whereas he was all speed and repetition. Still, even with their varying styles, he could see the position of her feet was wrong. Grounded as her wide stance might be, she left herself open to being tripped. The more he looked at it, though, the more he couldn’t understand it. How she didn’t fall over with every swing was an act of divinity. 

Varric shrugged. “Admittedly? Not much,” he confirmed, “But I don’t need to be a renowned chef to know when you’ve burnt the hell out of the tart. Unless it’s Seeker protocol to render yourself useless within a couple seconds of a fight. You people do love your trade secrets.”

Cassandra roared with the final swing, causing the dummy to collapse. This was more than simple irritation with Varric and his comments.

“You seem to be in a mood, Cassandra,” Solas approached cautiously, “Care to discuss before you destroy all the training equipment?”

The woman grunted, eyes cutting his way to convey displeasure. Displeasure at what remained a mystery. “Straight to the point,” she mumbled.

He shot a brow up. “Would you rather I work away at your resolve with flowery language and sweetness?” he asked.

Chuckling, Cassandra sheathed her blade and wiped away the sweat at her brow with the back of her gloved hand. Breadth was given to her to catch her breath and shuffle her thoughts in a way that made sense. Actions intended to release tension rarely lent themselves to order and calm reflection. Part of the appeal was the idea of the body speaking in its own voice, a voice not laden with the confines of words and eloquence. With a final long-winded sigh, Cassandra strolled over to where Solas and Varric stood at the side, hands on her hips and face serious.

“I expected  _ this  _ to be difficult, but I could have never dreamed that…” she began. Solas could tell she didn’t want to admit the problem. She frowned. “I thought struggle would come from the outside, not the inside.”

Varric snorted. “That’s wishful thinking at its finest,” he observed.

Another disgruntled sound of disgust from Cassandra. “Of course, you would criticize me,” she griped, rolling her eyes. 

“I’m not criticizing you, Cassandra!” Varric quickly defended, “Just a general statement…”

“What struggles do you speak of?” Solas questioned. His interest was obviously a surprise to Varric, his thick brows shooting up in amazement. To Solas, it made perfect sense to be concerned for the struggles of the Inquisition. He did not think himself this isolated man, too consumed by the “mysterious” magic of the Breach and too fixated on how to combat it to care in the slightest for the organization he was with. 

“We bicker constantly!” Cassandra exclaimed, kicking a rock across the area with vigor, “I suggest something and there’s an immediate chorus of ‘we can’t’ or ‘that is not strategically sound’. To hell with strategically sound! As it stands, our hands are bound and it is entirely our own doing because  _ no one will give in.” _

By ‘we,’ Solas assumed she meant the people who spent their time locked away in the Chantry and discussing plans over maps. Now he imagined people screaming at each other, refusing to relent for some reason or another. Did Faen speak up, raise her voice? 

“Maybe it’s you who needs to give in a little,” Varric offered. When he saw that Cassandra didn’t take too kindly, he backed off.

“Josephine has a political reason for not doing this. Cullen has a tactical reason for not doing that. Leliana has both reasons for not doing _anything_. And the Herald slips out in the dead of an argument without so much as a sound!” she continued to fume. Now she pinched the bridge of her nose. “We were _so close _to deciding on the next course of action when the Herald vanished.”

Solas’ ear twitched. 

“I don’t blame her,” Varric huffed, “You, Curly, Nightingale, and Ruffles are a lot to handle. That’s four big and bold personalities in one room for Maker knows how long.”

While Varric and Cassandra continued to debate, Solas quietly slunk away. Of all times, it appeared to him that now was the most opportune or critical to speak with Faen. He couldn’t be certain what she felt, if she felt anything bordering on upset at all, but risking it wasn’t ideal. A voice the size of a pea echoed in his mind, warning him that he wasn’t driven by a desire to avoid an expel of built-up energy, not truly. 

Wisdom would surely say something about how convenient an excuse that was.

His search for her began with a small draw of energy, just enough being gathered to send out and feel for hers but not draw too much attention. People might feel a tingle on their skin, a feeling that someone had just brushed past them but so slight they would barely register it. On their way to Haven, Vivienne made the comment that mages of high enough education and experience could sense magic in whatever capacity it existed in, regardless of quantity or volume. Solas knew this to be true but only on the condition that one honed their focus in the first place. He was not worried about extending a questioning tendril of magic through Haven. 

That tendril could not find anything, or more likely couldn’t distinguish the feel of Faen’s magic from the rest of the ambient magic that hung around Haven. All mage’s had a unique feel to their magic that set them apart from each other. Faen’s magic was slowly emerging, finding its footing and playing in this new life, and had to combat the taint of his magic as well. The mark,  _ his _ mark, wasn’t necessarily enough to add to her strength. But it was enough to pulsate steadily within the flow of her own magic, creating a tangle of the two that made it impossible to where one began and the other ended. 

Solas wandered into the Chantry. It was as he remembered it from his first venture into one a month ago. The smell of incense was just as powerful, the air just as oppressive as before. Though it was much quieter, less chaotic. Panic and accusation had dissipated completely to give the Chantry an entirely new feel about it. Regardless of what it lacked, he still did not like to be here. 

The hall was relatively sparse, filled only by a handful of Sisters centered around a woman he recognized as Mother Giselle. Thankfully she had no interest in lecturing him with endless platitudes today and was content to let him roam freely. His eyes scanned the walls lined with tapestries depicting various scenes for Chantry canon. Preservation and integrity among the pieces were diverse. Some of the tapestries were clear as day — colors vibrant and the scenes clear. Others were so faded and threadbare he questioned why they were even up. He wasn’t fully distracted by the tapestries, but it did draw him away from his original purpose. 

How out of place he must have looked. He smirked to himself, feeling the questioning and uncertain eyes of the Sisters on his back. It surprised him when he felt a decidedly more acute set of eyes on him and he glanced over his shoulder.

“Madame Vivienne,” he called cooly, “What brings you here?”

“I work here, my room is here,” she replied just as cooly, “It’s the hub of this little...settlement.”

“And you must be at the very heart of all things exciting,” he said, “I imagine the regular dwellings of everyone else were too humble for your tastes?”

Vivienne cackled. “But of course! You know me so well, my dear!” she assured him, “What brings  _ you  _ here?”

He ignored her question and returned his focus to the dilapidated tapestry before him. Hoping his silence would appease her enough to leave was a miscalculation. Silence only teased out the mystery even further. 

“You’re not here for the artistry on these walls, of that I’m sure,” she said, stalking up to his side. She examined the textile for a time, gleaning more from it than he ever could. “I have a feeling and a strong one.”

“What would that be?”

Vivienne turned to him, lips quirked in a smirk. She motioned to the door parallel to them. “She’s down there,” she informed him.

Heading towards the door would’ve given her the gratification she sought out. He didn’t want her to be right, especially seeing as she had nothing solid to go on besides intuition. Infuriating as her being spot-on was...he couldn’t be arsed to be spiteful or difficult. Afterall, the tension between them was amusing, not something to be taken seriously. People like Vivienne would always be at odds with people like him. And people like him would always be at odds with people like Vivienne. It didn’t bother him in the slightest. Any engagement with the Enchantress was at her obvious insistence and he only played along when he felt like it. He did not feel that way today. 

Thanking her, he brushed past her and descended the stairs into the dungeon. The hallway was dim and held air thick with disuse. Last time he’d been down here, the situation was frantic and shaky. He’d been ushered down here with hands tightly clasped around his arms, his escort reminding him every few minutes roughly and rigidly that “funny business” would result in him being struck down with all the wrath and might of their Maker. Circumstances differed this time, although the purpose remained the same. 

He found her where he first laid eyes on her — the center of the dungeon floor. Unlike last time, though, she was not bound or obviously distressed. She awake and alert, various tomes and documents sprawled out around her. Her back was to him and there was no discernable trace of her magic in the air. 

“I would have thought you’ve seen enough of confining walls and suffocating darkness.” Solas said gently.

Faen did not look up from what was in her lap. “I am nothing if not a masochist,” she testified in bitter jest. 

Solas took up a spot across from her, just outside the perimeter of the circle of books. Their titles suggested diverse topics: books on the life and death of Andraste, commerce in the Free Marches, a speculative work on who exactly Maferath was, and most curiously, a work touching on what was implied to be blood magic. He eyed that particular book for a moment before grabbing it and thumbing through it curiously. 

“Have an interest in blood magic?” she asked. She was looking at him.

“I do, in fact. Does that surprise you?” he answered.

She closed the book in her lap with a jarring slam, forcing his attention away from the book on blood magic. The expression on her face looked vaguely troubled. “A little,” she admitted, “It just...doesn’t seem your way. However fascinating it may be.”

His index finger vacantly stroked an elaborate rune on the page, committing the feel of it to memory for some reason. “It’s not exactly a field I’m well learned in. Truly, my desire to learn it is small. Blood magic stunts the ease in which one can slip into the Fade and for obvious reasons, I’m not really all that interested in it,” he explained, “For myself, that is. Otherwise, it’s a powerful form of magic that I don’t see as needing to be banned across all the land.”

Faen cocked her head to the side. “ _ Really? _ ” she asked with incredulity.

He prepared to explain and defend himself from whatever image she was forming of him when she continued on.

“I agree. A bit.” she admitted, “It’s just another form of magic. Could do without the ritual sacrifice, but if you bleed your own self…”

Solas was a touch surprised by her response. Blood magic, in this world, was reserved for the depraved and malicious. His opinion, the one where blood magic wasn’t inherently rooted in evil and was much the same as the use of lyrium, was one he hadn’t found mirrored in much of anyone outside himself and a few Dalish clans. The Dalish with all their shortcomings, did one thing he couldn’t argue on and it was permitting their mages to study blood magic. But it was only a handful of clans he’d come across and he suspected the push to tackle blood magic was purely to spite the Chantry. He could not argue with that. 

“Did members of your clan partake in blood magic?” he wondered.

Faen’s eyes grew foggy as she looked into her past. Her features still bore signs of discomfort but it was tinged with something else now. Nostalgia, perhaps? “A’len didn’t want me around magic too terribly much,” she said, “I think she was afraid it would stir the beast, so to speak. I only ever heard about magical practices through gossip from our hunters. Fantastical tales of blood orgies and sex magic. A’len always told me it was just talk, but years later, I saw the cuts on the First’s arms. I’m fairly certain all that talk was some weird attempt to project and likely never occurred. I knew our First near the end and she didn’t have enough time to sit on the bare laps of hungry demons and brainwashed men.”

Solas recognized the name.  _ A’len.  _ She’d said it before. He hadn’t paid much mind to it then, but he had questions now. “Was she the one who taught you how to control your magic?” he approached carefully. 

“Yes.”

“And you said she wasn’t a mage?” 

“Correct.”

“Who was she?”

The distance returned to her eyes, this time accompanied by a difficult coil of emotions. Faen nervously tapped her middle finger on the leather cover of the book in her lap and pursed her lips. Her brows furrowed as she worked through a wave of emotion. “To answer your question simply, she raised me. Any further than that...I don’t know,” she stated, “That seems to be a theme with me. Not knowing. But I was not born to Clan Lavellan. Their hunters found me not long after being born and brought me back with them. Sometimes I think they shouldn’t have.”

She chuckled without any real emotion at that last part. The tap of her finger on the book grew to a furious pace.

“Why not,  _ da’len? _ ” Solas asked softly. His words sliced through her fog and reached her with such clarity that it was almost as if she’d heard her first words.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” she whispered. 

He felt a prickle of regret at the base of his neck blossom out into every corner of his being. It numbed the extremities furthest from his heart and gummed everything else. It was the wrong line of questioning to take. An admission of this kind was the last thing he’d meant to draw out of her. Solas wanted to  _ want  _ to squirm about in uneasiness at her confession, at her deciding to tell this to someone and have him be the first. But he didn’t. There wasn’t even a vague hint of discomfort. Just the regret and regret for what? Nothing on his behalf. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry,” he apologized, “I cannot ask you to dig up unpleasant things to sate my lawless curiosity.”

The thing that flashed before his eyes was genuine and startling. A smile — toothy and more than a little uncanny — that cast a strange gleam in her eye that Solas had never seen before. As bizarre as the smile was (bizarre not only in rarity but in actual physical appearance), he felt an equally strange pull to it. It felt more intimate than anything a touch could conjure up, more sincere than lyrical words and kind acts. 

“It isn’t for  _ your  _ benefit,” she corrected him, “Kind of you to do away with that line of thinking, but it’s the wrong one. Unloading on Gitta can only do so much.”

After a moment of hesitation, he nodded and accepted her offer to expand on her thoughts. Knowing it was genuine did away with the regret. 

“Clan Lavellan was skeptical of me from the beginning. I guess no one told them a newborn was virtually harmless. But I digress. From what I understand, several voices of concern were raised about bringing some strange child into the clan, all motherless and yet somehow alive. They thought me an ill omen,” she explained, “So I was given to the resident hermit, someone who was just as much an outcast as the ill omened baby. A’len was always old and blind. Children in the clan couldn’t recall a time when she wasn’t. I...A’len was fine, I suppose. I can’t really gauge her abilities on raising me too well, seeing as I have nothing to compare it to, but she’s responsible for a great deal of what I am.

“It wasn’t really A’len that was the problem, though. Wasn’t even  _ really _ a problem either, but…” Faen chewed at her cheek the duration of her pause, “I thought I was content. Content with being held at arm’s length and ignored my whole life. Content with being reminded every second of every day that my mere presence was a great enough discomfort to be sent away most of the time.

“You asked me how I felt, back in the woods, and I didn’t have an answer. I do now, I believe. I feel...like I’ve been asleep all my life. Like my life has been a dream this entire time and I’m at the behest of everything else to shape it,” her words grew more frantic by the second, “My life feels like a plaything. I want to wake up! I want to take control of all these things that have spiraled  _ out _ of control! I thought I was mourning the loss of my life with the clan, my  _ stupid and useless life with the clan,  _ but I’m mourning something so much greater than a middling existence with people who couldn’t even look me in the eye for more than two seconds! I’m mourning the death of the wool I’d drawn over my eyes to not see how miserable and pathetic everything was! It’s gone now! I can see everything with such sickening clarity, Solas!”

Tears rolled down her flushed cheeks consistently, dripping off the edge of her jawline and landing in her lap. Her eyes were wide and begging for answers. Magic swelled to fill the space, the feel of it like cool water rushing over him and tinged with traces of his own ancient magic, and he knew he needed to calm her down as quickly as possible.

“What do I do, Solas?” she begged,  _ “What do I do?” _

Solas grabbed her hands and held them between his own, his fingers squeezing solidly with every wave of severe emotion.  _ “Breathe, da’len. Calm yourself. Focus on my touch, my hands. You are alright,”  _ he instructed her adamantly, flooding her with his own magic to soothe her, “ _ Focus, Faen. Empty your mind, pour from it everything that builds this fear and panic up so strongly.” _

Slowly, Faen calmed down, her magic collapsing in on itself more and more with every passing second until it had crumbled completely back into the deep place she hid it. Even after the worst had passed, Faen still gripped his hands as if they were the only thing keeping her from falling apart. The finger over her pulse felt its rapid pace descend into normalcy again. 

He allowed the appropriate amount of time to pass before he spoke. 

“It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?” Solas coaxed delicately, “Your world has been rocked so violently you can’t make out the pieces of what was before. It’s all meaningless debris, scattered aimlessly about, but in your heart your  _ know _ what it once was. Even if it wasn’t a beautifully perfect life, wrought with happiness and satisfaction, it was still all you knew.”

She watched him in that odd way of hers, eyes burning into him strongly enough that he could nearly feel their movement as they roved his face for answers, but he came to understand it was her way of listening intently. He’d watched her encounters with people who visibly bored her, observed how her eyes wandered off to the side of them as they spoke and it was evident in the spaciness of her gaze that she had long since stopped listening. To have her look at him with her undivided attention was surreal, as it always was. During their lessons or conversations both brief and extended, she was attentive and engaged. Those eyes always begged for the same thing.  _ More, more, tell me more.  _

“I’ve lived many years,” he sparsely divulged, “My life has changed so many times over the course of all those years, that I couldn’t disclose to you just how many times what I’ve built with my own two hands has shattered completely, ground itself into a fine dust and was carried away with a whisper. Lost forever. Time erodes away most everything, this is true, but the utter shock and horror at watching your world burn...sadly, time can’t begin to chip away at that pain. No matter how old I grow, it’s just as agonizing as the first. 

“Time  _ does  _ wear away at the pain, but it dies a gruesomely slow death, littered with every sort of difficulty imaginable. But do not be discouraged — revel in your shock for a time, although to linger for too long is to be consumed by it. For some, fate is an order. For others, it is an elementary suggestion. To which belief do you find the most truth?” he asked.

Faen, for the first time since he’d grabbed her, became aware of how tightly she clung to his hands. The strength in her fingers relaxed, leaving him feeling as if a piece of him had been excised too precipitously for comfort. Warmth remained and spiked up his arm and into his chest. She pressed the tips of her fingers to her parted lips, the sharp edge of her left canine visible to him.

“Suggestion,” she breathed with determination. 

“Then pay no mind to what fate mumbles to you. Your life can appear to fall apart and leave you with nothing, and yet too much. Take back the reins of your life. You’re beyond capable of that. You’ll find more comfort in designing a plan to pry your life from the hands of others than anything I could tell you.” he explained.

She looked away from him as if she swiftly grew bashful. He saw how long her lashes were, how they fanned out across the top of her cheekbones. 

Solas did not say anything more,  _ would not  _ until she responded in some way. He could practically see his words flow over her like she’d had a blanket thrown over her. Words were carefully mulled, a spark of hope flickering to life in those murky depths. Her magic sparked up as well in response to the shift. Unlike the previous flare, this one was sedate, almost courteous in its bloom and subsequent exploration. It too acted as if it were weighing his words. 

Finally, Faen nodded. “Yes,” she agreed, “It’s all about control…”

Solas chuckled. “In a sense. All life is about control, though the type and application differs per circumstance,” he admitted, “It’s an impressive feat to take control of a spiral out of it. I...believe in you. I’ve never met someone with such promise.”

The words startled them both. Faen blinked as if that would clear the air of what he said, while he stiffened and drew in a sharp breath. Her cheeks flooded with color, the contrast of it against her pale skin blunt, and she fiddled with the ratty pages of the book in her lap. He hadn’t the faintest idea of what came over him, the desire to ferociously scold himself welling up. But why? It was a minor confession, one that meant nothing more than what he lent it. And here he was, lending it an extreme amount. The tips of his ears reddened. 

Just when he thought he overstepped a bit too far, Faen smiled. 

“Not even in the Fade?” she teased.

He smirked. “Let me amend my statement: I’ve never met someone  _ outside the Fade  _ with such promise.” he jested in turn.

She giggled. The sound was bewildering to hear when it came from her, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He wanted to hear more of it. “I’ve never heard a more unjust specification in my life,” she bubbled. 

“You asked!” he resounded.

“I didn’t expect you to  _ amend  _ your statement!”

Sighing, he shook his head. “Women are positively baffling creatures, what with all your unspoken rules.” he said.

They sat in the dungeon floor for hours, reading and periodically breaking the silence to ask questions on a mystifying concept or happening or just engage in general chatter about what they were reading. Peace and calm suffused the air. It was the slow dwindle of the candle light, the wax having melted into a small puddle and lazily drowning the wick, that broke the spell and the two of them, much to their dismay, began to pile up the books to tuck them back into their spots on the shelves in the archives. They did not speak.

Once, their hands brushed as they both reached for the book at the top of the pile. Neither paid it much mind, but he couldn’t get a single thought out of his head, even after the task had been completed and he was lying in bed that night.

_ How...refreshing.  _

  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  



	9. A Charge in the Lull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things before I jump in: I'm really sorry for the seemingly large gap between updates. This chapter was slow to come about for several reasons, the main one being I was kinda in a funk for most of it and still am, but it's done. Also, there was some personal stuff going on, a little splash of drama that slowed things and made me reconsider my role in this fandom, but I've decided my writing won't stop. Which brings me into the next thing which is that I currently have no "social media" accounts anymore. If you would like to get in contact with me, AO3 is really the only way to do it, although I do have a Discord lol. Otherwise, I deleted my tumblr and have no intentions of remaking it or even interacting with the fandom beyond what I do here.  
Final thing, I'm going to change how I do things in terms of updates. I know I said I'd break every five chapters to work on other projects, but I'm abandoning that to work on something I'm really excited about. Every other update for this work, I'm going to be working on my 'birds of a feather' project where the focus is on Carver Hawke and his sister, Siggy Hawke, and the tension between them. Of course, there will be PLENTY of romance (not with each other lol) but the whole purpose of the story is to showcase how Hawke's and Carver's relationship with each other evolve and how their own personal romantic relationships shape them. So expect another long break between updates lol.  
Anyways, do enjoy! :)

Time, that’s what she needed. At first, she approached what she called the Inquisitive Council with a request of a few days to decide what she wanted to do regarding templars and mages, then remembered what Solas said and demanded it. Her request was hesitantly granted, stern voices warning her that while she was being given time, they would move without her if a decision was not come to before three days passed. It was a suitable enough window of time, seeing as her mind was already made up in its entirety. 

To her, there wasn’t much of a decision at all to make in regards to approaching the templars or the mages. More so currently than ever before, the Templar Order embodied nearly every sin of the Chantry perfectly — led astray from a questionably noble path by captivating glimpses of power, complete submission to the idea that every situation could only be approached by individual discretion, weaponizing faith to justify every action, and endlessly terrifying once you dared to draw aside the curtain just a fraction. An alliance with the templars was unimaginable. Discard their atrocities, as Cullen and Cassandra so wanted her to do, and they were still Chantry dogs. They may not have been bound by their leashes anymore, but they had certainly grown around them. At the very least, she could not ally with the templars on principle. 

Mages were the better option by leaps and bounds. She used to be of the mindset that human affairs, despite her life being immersed in them from the shadows, were of no concern to her. She saw their problems, their triumphs, their attempts through eyes that didn’t care and spoke of them with a mouth that couldn’t taste the richness of it all. That wasn’t the view she held anymore. No one particular instance was responsible for the change, but she could attribute it to intimate views of Circles. Vivienne was right, not every Circle was drowning in corruption and injustices, but there were far too many for comfort. Faen became keenly aware that mages had the unique distinction amongst humans and the Chantry as being reviled regardless of the shape of their ears. Once this sank in, it felt only natural to understand them. Her magic had not gone as well nurtured and cultivated as theirs, leaving Faen to never consider herself amongst their rank. But the suffering was the same: loathed for something innate to them and utterly out of their control. 

The purpose of the three days was to conceptualize a plan to get her way without being pushed aside or ignored. She saw the looks they exchanged when she made a suggestion, could practically hear their thoughts as if they had spoken them plainly. To the council gathered in that back room, she was nothing more than an obtuse and unaware child. Strategy wasn’t on the tip of her tongue, rationale was an underdeveloped sense, and experience was nonexistent. Even Josephine and Leliana with their sharp eyes and insight on how appearances were deceiving, afforded any of her ideas the weight they deserved. People beyond that room spoke like she was absolutely instrumental in the direction and efforts of the Inquisition, but that was quite removed from the truth. 

Anger sat like a rock in her stomach the first day. Here she was, trying what felt like in vain, to overcome the very people she felt were suffocating her. A voice in her head told her they didn’t mean it, that Cullen and the others only wanted what was best for the world, but she was in no mood to listen to a voice as small and weak as that one. Yes, she could acknowledge their intentions were perfectly placed, but their execution was bothersome and she was sick of it. She was brought out of her anger by the arrival of a messenger with an offer to bring aboard The Bull’s Chargers. The messenger was strangely charming, the low seductive purr of his voice enticing her to accept his offer. His name was Krem and he smiled like a boy she knew in a little village south of Denerim. 

The following day, there was a bit of a quiet uproar as a giant Qunari with a small and eclectic group at his back showed up just outside Haven. But his face was kind, his smile almost buoyant and his words boomed out of him. He called himself The Iron Bull, Bull for short, and  _ these  _ were his Chargers, in the flesh after their emissary’s offer had been accepted. Krem flashed her an alluring smile and waved. Bull was initially met with the careful guard she’d come to expect from all of Haven, but the distrust quickly slipped away when Josephine greeted him in her elegant and cordial way. Josephine had that type of reputation, the kind where her acceptance and presence alone could soothe the most rampant of fears. 

Affairs were settled with the Chargers and Bull offered to join Faen on missions in the field. Before she could accept, he interjected with a revelation that befuddled her. With as much nonchalance as wiping your arse, Bull willingly disclosed his status as a Ben-Hassrath. She’d heard the term here and there, gleaned enough from the mentions she’d heard that they were best understood as Qunari spies. Bull explained that while true, it was only partially so. 

_ “ _ Sure, the work I do lands in the territory of a spy. But is a Templar  _ just _ a solider because he wields a sword and shield? Is a Dalish hunter’s only role to provide the clan with game? ” he’d asked.

“I’d presume so.” she’d said.

“The duties of the Ben-Hassrath go beyond spying. Our role is...what is it in Trade? Defenders? Protectors?” his words had trailed off.

“Protectors of what?”

“The Qunari peoples, everything we’ve built, and stand for.”

After their conversation, Bull seemed surprised that she didn’t push the issue of him  _ being  _ Ben-Hassrath, of him forfeiting this information so casually and immediately. She explained that she was thankful for his honesty, informing him that Leliana would’ve surely sniffed it out sooner rather than later anyways. 

“That woman…” he’d grunted at the mention of her. “Redheads stir something in me, boss.”

Faen promptly saw how much she would grow to like him, his easy-going and impartially friendly demeanor alluding to a friendship. She hoped, anyway. 

On the subject of friendships…

Solas had made himself somewhat scarce in the days following their...moment in the dungeon. It wasn’t as if he were purposely avoiding her, that wasn’t the feel of it, but he was not where he often dwelled most times she passed by there. When he was, she felt almost shy or embarrassed to approach him or knock on his door. Disturbing him felt too invasive, though she reminded herself that he’d been witness to a come-apart unlike any other she’d experienced. Still, that was on her terms. Intruding upon  _ his _ life wasn’t the same as her granting him a glimpse into hers. 

Her mind wandered to the quiet comfort they’d shared for those few hours. When duties slowed or she had a moment to herself, she would close her eyes and a smile would ghost her lips as she thought back to it. That night, the memory was so profound it nearly lulled her to sleep completely. 

Gitta disturbed it, however, her weight soon filling Faen’s lap and her purrs rumbling through her. Faen stroked her coat without thinking, the dream and her sleep thoroughly shattered. With it gone, her waking mind was filled with the current most pressing issue — how to get those pulling the strings of the Inquisition to listen to her. Numerous factors played into their dismissal of her. Her age, the distant reputation of the Dalish, her being an elf...all things she couldn’t hope to overcome or change in the next day or so. 

“They won’t listen to me,” she told Gitta. “I’ve never been any good at making people listen. I can’t exactly threaten them all, not without repercussion. I  _ do  _ owe them my life, several times over.”

Gitta tilted her head in that uncanny way that Faen took to mean she was listening and intently so. The cat was infinitely more responsive and intelligent than nearly every other cat she’d met in all her travels, as well as remarkably capable. Showing up in the most unlikely of places, bringing with her news or some type of aid Faen wasn’t aware she needed. The cat never spoke to her, but sometimes...maybe Gitta’s words weren’t carried by a voice. Faen could, however, swear the cat could almost...transmist her thoughts over. A weird and uncharacteristic string of thoughts would flit through her mind in particularly pressing moments, when eye contact was made and maintained with Gitta. 

It was stupid. Gitta couldn’t talk, couldn’t transfer her thoughts, couldn’t offer valuable insight. She  _ could _ provide comfort. And talking to the creature calmed Faen.

“What do you think?” she asked the cat, scratching behind her ear.

Gitta meowed and jumped atop the desk Faen sat at. The fire popped in the hearth. The cat stalked across the desk, butting her head up against Faen’s extended hand, and lifting her tail high to expose her backside. Faen chuckled.

“Thank you for the suggestion, Madame. I’ll take that into account,” she teased. “Nothing a good, tasteful arsehole flash can’t overcome.”

Gitta did that cat thing Faen loved with all her heart, the lazy closing of her eyes followed by a look of pure love and safety. She sighed.

How to move forward was a question that gnawed at her angrily, gradually wearing away at her mood as it built in intensity.  _ What to do, what to do? Make them listen, make them listen!  _ Something hurled at her repeatedly.

_ I don’t know!  _ She wanted to scream back, but she couldn’t. Wasn’t like admitting it aloud would make her feel any better. Yelling at an empty room, disturbing a perfectly innocent cat, and inviting questions from the general public about her sanity would achieve nothing either. Half of Orlais already thought her a raving murderer, which was built upon the foundation of her being a blasphemous figurehead. To have the army of the faithful gathered here suspect her insane would surely drive her to the very brink of it. 

A flare of something twitched at her fingertip. It twinged weirdly in her chest, making her brows sink in worry. Another burst of whatever this was welled up but this time, it made itself clear. It was her magic, bucking tentatively at its restraints for the first time in her life. Fear flashed for a second, her heart rate picking up as she wondered if this was a sign that her magic was vying for total control, but it passed when she felt just how timid the thrashing was. She hadn’t used her magic in weeks now. Perhaps a beast had been created in the wake of trying to cultivate it, maybe she would regret agreeing to Solas’ offer to teach her, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel regret at that moment. Curious and restless as her magic was, she still felt like she was in thorough control of it. Solas had said she had more control than she knew and with their previous conversation still fresh in her mind, she was determined that she would never  _ lose _ that control.

The feel of her magic currently was like that of hunger — a mere nagging sensation now, with the potential to advance into this all consuming thing. Eat now and it abates. Until another release was required. 

What could she do, though? 

A small space, one primarily comprised of wood, wasn’t a sparkling environment to play with fire. But...fire magic wasn’t the only bit of magic at her disposal. Echoes of lines read in books mingled with the rich timbre of Solas’ voice.  _ Magic is intrinsic. There are things all mages know that can never be taught.  _

When she’d first heard that, she wondered what exactly it was that she knew that she didn’t know. Nothing ever seemed that innate that it required no teaching, especially in terms of magic. Ever since that moment, however, it was as if her eyes had been opened. Sensations she couldn’t quite place welled up, visions of herself doing things that months before (when her magic was given enough room to exist and that was it) seemed out of reach and impossible bombarded her at weird times. Magic was  _ alive  _ in a sense beyond her and it was fruitless and stupid to deny that. Giving it the chance to take the reins, in a manner of speaking, was...probably ill-advised by many, but since when did she  _ really  _ give a damn? 

_ This is  _ my  _ magic, the magic of an elf, and we do not abide by human laws and customs.  _

Faen relaxed enough to pull her magic to the surface. As it came forward, it slowly began to settle over her like a warm blanket. Its touch was familiar, yet alien. Overall, the sensation was beyond pleasing, as it felt like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders when her magic was permitted the room to breathe. And breathe it did. Hours, or what felt like it, passed with her just sitting there in her cabin, baffled by how she endured all these years without so much as a brush of her magic. Now that it was free, it was an extension of herself. A force she couldn’t live without anymore. Looking back on it, all those years of her life with this magic driven down, down, down was like living with a handicap for no reason. It was always there, waiting and occasionally quietly begging to be let go, but she couldn’t. It was comparable to refusing to use an arm despite it being completely intact and perfectly capable. She saw that now. 

When the awe at her existence before magic passed, she was able to set about her goal. 

_ Do as you will, within reason. But don’t forget my limits are yours, my say is your say, and you are  _ nothing  _ without me.  _

Her magic was receptive to her terms, for they were an undeniable truth. They were not separate entities, they could not exist without the other. That was clear to her now. Magic, specifically her magic, was not this foreign creature dwelling in the deepest depths of her anymore. When Solas first started his lessons, it became an acquaintance, one she was initially scared of, but like all things, time changed that. In her cell in Val Royeaux, she was alone, but her magic kept her company. Thrumming just beneath her skin, keeping her somewhat sane for the duration of her imprisonment. Things were dark in that time, her grasp on reality not slipping but...perverting into something unrecognizable and convincing her this was the end. Seeing as her magic wasn’t a unique entity, it agreed. It let her believe it because it believed it too. 

Now they were together, union realized, and no one could take that from her. 

Until she fell asleep, her magic swirled about her in a myriad of shapes. Tight ringlets of warmth. Elongated cones of colors she’d never seen before. Pops and bursts of sound those beyond this room would be hard pressed to hear. Her favorite were the flowing ribbons of colors  _ and  _ smells. All of it, regardless of manifestation, were her doing. All without thought, all perfectly in her control and ability. She fell into a deep sleep that night, charmingly exhausted and pleased that after agonizing over how to get people to listen to her, she had her answer. 

All she had to do was offer no other path to follow but her own. 

* * *

Why was he here, of all places? Always a tavern, always a tankard of meager ale, and always a card game no one but him had any chance of winning. Although, today he was humbled by Sera’s skill and prowess. At some point, Varric knew which way the wind was blowing and instead of enduring an unholy ass whooping, he folded, leaving Sera to prey upon a green Faen. 

Watching the two of them play was fun enough — Faen’s tactics unsure, though he couldn’t blame her as the game had been explained to her a mere hour ago, while Sera was practically rabid in her approach — but the further he sunk back into his chair, the more it seemed as if things were falling into place before his eyes. A tavern always called to him. He wasn’t much of a drinker, his indulging in a drink somewhat periodic as opposed to regular, and he wasn’t big into gambling. With all this in mind, why was it that he was so drawn to taverns? For more than a decade, he’d resided in a nice room in the Hanged Man. One would think he’d have grown sick of the atmosphere and in a lot of ways, he was. 

Dealing with drunks on the daily and all manner of shady characters got old fast and by the time he left Kirkwall, he was beyond ready for a change. Leaving Kirkwall wasn’t exactly his idea, true, but it got the ball rolling. 

Now that he was beyond the gold chains and harshly cut buildings into the stone and aggressive drops of Kirkwall, he was almost grateful for the chance at a change of pace. Hawke certainly made life fun, Siggy having dragged him into every possible corner of the city for years and stirring up trouble, however inadvertently, all the while. But Hawke wasn’t  _ in  _ Kirkwall anymore. Hardly any of that tight-knit group that got into everything remained. Those that did, had obligations out the ass and made time for card night every so often instead of every week, sometimes twice. Not that Varric didn’t have obligations himself — Kirkwall  _ was  _ a downright mess after the uprising and who else was going to fix it? — but he supposed he was one of the few people in the world who could balance obligations and relationships. A pit soon formed in his heart. Gone were the days of instant and exceptional comradery. It felt like his family had slipped through his fingers.

Traveling with Cassandra and eventually the rest of the Inquisition had been...interesting. It didn’t fill the hole, just took his mind away from it, but that was enough. Soon, he realized he enjoyed the traveling. There was a world beyond the ecosystem of Kirkwall and he wanted to see more of it. For years, his life had been comprised of a single city’s problems exclusively. Now he had other concerns. 

So there was this drastic change in his life and he was adjusting beautifully.

But now he was back in a tavern. It was just a tavern, indicative of nothing at all, yet he felt like he was back in Kirkwall. Alone. Stuck in a life that was over. Being there, being there and enjoying it as much as he was, drug up old memories of times significantly simpler. He chuckled when he considered a small Qunari invasion and calamitous mage uprising ‘simpler times.’ Didn’t seem that way at the time, but compared to doom being unleashed on the  _ whole world with nowhere to hide?  _ Yeah, simpler times. 

Varric missed that life, he wasn’t trying to convince himself otherwise, but he was very much aware that he needed time away from the place that reminded him constantly of that life. Kirkwall hadn’t been abandoned whatsoever. He could travel the world the rest of his life and Kirkwall would forever be his home. Like Bianca, it was complicated. He loved them both with all his heart. Still...he couldn’t be there, not now. 

He scanned the tavern when there was a lull in the excitement of the game before him. It was really only a single room, smaller than most taverns, but cozier than most taverns. There wasn’t the air that things could escalate between the patrons. Just from a cursory glance around the room, no one present (besides maybe Sera) was there for the express purpose of getting drunk. A drink or two to calm the nerves. A place to unwind and be carefree for a time. 

Perhaps that was why he was drawn here by that inexplicable call. The world and all its problems ceased to exist while in a tavern full of people. Laughter was the presiding mistress of them, drinks and games the second in command. Lightness aside, a tavern was also ridiculously familiar. The world was a series of forever moving and constantly changing mechanisms. Cogs and gears that were rarely well oiled and frequently ground against each other. He could admit that he needed this break from his old life, that it benefited him in every possible way, but it didn’t diminish the importance of the break to accept he needed familiarity  _ fiercely.  _ Varric could see that now.

He thumbed the rim of his tankard as he worried his bottom lip. Somewhere there was a shrill bark of laughter, followed by someone trying their hardest to retract whatever statement drew such laughter out. The door off to the side opened, permitting a frigid breeze to roll through the warm space, and that giant man who went by Iron Bull entered. Qunari had a way of sucking the life out of a room and replacing it with dead silence and hanging jaws. A hush fell over the tavern as he walked in. Years of living with the qunari a stone’s throw away had taken the wonder out of seeing them for Varric. 

_ Yes, he’s very big! He’s got horns! No need to drop everything you’re doing to gawk and drool all over yourselves. _

The Iron Bull took the looks in stride. He flashed everyone a charming smile and spread his arms wide. “No worries, everyone! I only bite hard if you ask me nicely,” he informed everyone loudly. The looks on the faces of the patrons varied widely. Some looked at him in barely concealed wonder, others looked like they were impressed beyond measure, and others looked unapproving and sour. Moments late the tavern returned to its previous atmosphere.

Sera turned back to their table. “Big ol’ boy, innhe?” she whispered. “Can’t imagine the  _ women...woof. _ ”

“Dare I say they’d be too much for you to handle?” Faen said, carefully examining her hand. She wasn’t fazed by Bull’s entrance in the slightest. 

Sera scoffed. “How do you know what I can handle?” she quipped.

Varric set his tankard down and chuckled. “C’mon, Buttercup,” he began. “You can’t weigh more than a sack of flour. I’ve never seen a qunari that wasn’t built like Fort Drakon.”

Frowning, Sera flicked a card his direction and stuck her tongue out at him, waggling it about for emphasis. “What you on about? You’re smaller than me by giant steps,  _ dwarf.  _ Not like you could handle one of those big women, yeah?” she retaliated. 

“Unlike you, I never said I could.”

Varric caught sight of Iron Bull making his way over to the table, the scene of him weaving his way through a small sea of people with such care quite entertaining. With his bulky frame and and menacingly foreign features, he could push aside every obstacle in his path as if he were swatting away flies. But Varric could hear the low rumble of him politely excusing himself. 

While he was certain Leliana had heard more on the Bull than anyone, Varric  _ did _ have a decent amount of intel on the Iron Bull. Bull’s reputation was one that preceded him, word of him spreading pretty far for him to be a mysterious oxman. And what was said of him was even more fascinating than the fact that his name was in a fair amount of places. Hawke had nabbed a book on the qunari from the Kirkwall Chantry once and besides blackmailing a sister for whose nightstand the book was discovered on (the naughty notes penned in the margins was enough to make even him blush) who was blackmailing  _ Hawke,  _ Siggy would provide him with a thorough insight into the qunari people as told from the perspective from a Chantry scholar. She told him that the qunari most all of southern Thedas came into contact with were part of the  _ antaam,  _ their military body, and thus were not representative of the qunari people as a whole. But they were the only exposure southern Thedas had to the qunari, their stoicism and reticent might the standard for all qunari now. 

But from everything Varric had heard about the Iron Bull was contradictory to what was presumed of the qunari. Tales spoke of how energetic and loud the Bull was, how he took someone new to bed every night and how that person was unable to walk the next day. The fact that he even  _ spoke _ for longer than a sentence was enough to set him apart completely. The Arishok and his people inhabited Kirkwall for  _ years _ and the most he’d ever gotten out of the most talkative of them was a conversation spanning all of three minutes. Granted, the interaction was fully driven by Varric himself, the qunari man responding mainly in grunts and the odd ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ 

“Boss!” Bull shouted as he approached the table. Presumably ‘Boss’ was Faen, who didn’t even look up from the cards in her hand.

“Sit,” Sera commanded, pulling him up a chair. “We have questions for you.”

Faen sifted through her cards momentarily before she pulled one from her hand and slipped it on the table looking pleased with herself. “‘ _ We’  _ do not,” she said. “But  _ you  _ might.”

The chair looked too small for Iron Bull to sit comfortably in, but he managed by some stroke of luck. If he leaned too far back, though, the chair was bound to snap. “Ask away,” he permitted. “On the stipulation you deal me in. What are we playing?”

“Gin rummy,” said Faen with great confidence.

“Go fish,” Sera said with an equal amount of confidence. Their conflicting answers forced both of them to pause and Bull to flick his gaze back and forth between them. An argument was feasibly imminent.

“It was blackjack, but who’s keeping track? Not me, let’s play Wicked Grace,” Varric implored.

While he gathered up the cards and deflected Faen’s apprehension at playing the game due to her not knowing how to play, Sera turned her body to face Bull completely. 

“Your women, what do they look like? They big and burly like you? Horns all pokey and...shiny?” Sera inquired rather bluntly.

His brows furrowed as he pondered the question. Truthfully, Varric wouldn’t know how to respond either. There were a handful of times an ignorant human had asked him what dwarven women looked like. What was the answer? There came a point where you didn’t pay attention to things like that, didn’t understand why the question was asked in the first place. Dwarven women looked like...women? No different than anyone else, as ordinary as anyone else. Bull surely felt the same way.

“Uhh…” he droned, scratching the scruff of his jaw. “Like me, but with tits?”

That information visibly percolated in Sera’s mind, her eyes glazing over as she formed a vision of it. Her eyes strolled over Bull one final time before she could see it perfectly. 

“Thank the Maker for clarifying, Iron Bull,” Varric rejoiced. “I was so worried about the tits.”

Raising his massive tankard so forcefully that foam spilled over the side, Bull smiled brightly. “Glad I could be of service!” he cheered. “For future reference, I prefer ‘The’ at the front of my name. An article gives it that kind of…”

“Pop.” Faen suggested and Bull nodded emphatically.

“ _ Pop. _ ” he agreed.

By that point, Sera was too consumed by the image of a qunari woman she’d conjured up to do anything besides drool and blink lazily. She’d gone limp in her chair, limbs dangling at her sides like a lifeless doll. Weird as it was, seeing as Varric was sure she hadn’t touched it, her hair was even more disheveled than normal. 

“ _ The  _ Iron Bull it is,” Varric corrected. This pleased Bull immensely. 

Conversation ensued, mainly focused around teaching Faen how to play the game with lighthearted banter sprinkled in between. Faen was in the midst of recounting their directions (for her own sake, no doubt) when they were interrupted by a soft yet commanding voice.

“Excuse me,” it politely called. Everyone had been so absorbed in the game they didn’t see that someone had approached their table until they already stood there.

It was a woman, short but not compact, and with a heaping load of curly red hair masterfully swept up into a lopsided bun atop her head. Tight tendrils of hair had escaped the bun and framed her round face. The tips of pointed ears poked out from the loose strands of hair, marking her as an elf. There was a notable lack of tattoos on her face, which was strange for an elf, he thought. In the dim light of the tavern, her emerald eyes sparkled like pretty gems. A single dark mark sat at the right corner of her mouth. The more he looked at her, the more he was oddly taken with her. Everyone at the table must have felt the same, as they afforded her a decent amount of attention. 

“I hate to interrupt,” she said in a way that hinted that she wasn’t really. “But I couldn’t contain myself. I had to know.”

Her eyes were practically glued to Varric.

“Are you Varric Tethras?” she asked and he snorted. Being recognized wasn’t anything new. Kirkwallers were thoroughly acquainted with Varric Tethras, most either having business dealings with him or having heard his stories from him directly in the Hanged Man. Being recognized by someone  _ beyond _ Kirkwall was  _ fabulously  _ strange. Usually, when he traveled for business, he used his name sparingly, which worked in his favor. If he didn’t explicitly out himself as  _ the  _ Varric Tethras, no one was the wiser. That luxury hadn’t been afforded to him here. When Cassandra had dragged him to Haven, she wrung out his name like it was wash day. Since arriving, he’d been approached by all sorts of people, a fat deal shocking him to his core. A handful of Chantry sisters pestered him about his romance serial and he could see Andraste rolling over in her grave. Nevertheless, he thoroughly enjoyed interacting with fans, even if it was exhausting.

He repositioned himself in his chair, sucking in a deep breath in preparation for the meeting. “In the flesh,” he said, smiling brazenly.

The stranger’s features lent themselves to a perpetual slight smile in spite of whatever she was feeling. The delicate lift of the corners of her lips was natural. The friendly and inviting glow in her eyes was forever present. All this made it hard to decipher what her true emotion was, but Varric believed her gratification to be authentic. 

After all this time locked away in la la land, Sera decided now of all times was the opportune moment to emerge from her haze. “Wouldn’t you rather be lookin’ for me, love?” she said in what was her attempt at a seductive purr. Maybe it was because Varric wasn’t attracted to the elf in the slightest, but it fell completely flat.

“Or me?” Iron Bull echoed. Faen simply blinked.

The stranger giggled sweetly, pushing back a strand of hair behind her ear. “Unless you’re  _ all  _ tastefully adroit in wordsmithing and have led lives so near to the epicenter of everything crazy it’s perplexing how one person could be so unlucky, I’m afraid I’m here for Master Tethras.” she kindly shot them down.

Bull was true to his name, barreling forward at a kidding pace. “Jury is out on the wordsmithing,  _ but... _ my life has been full of excitement.” he flirted.

“If you’re who I think you are, then I’m quite sure it has. A new round of excitement every night.” she said.

Varric chuckled. “Don’t mind them. I usually don’t,” he jested, waving them off. “I’m afraid I don’t have a pen on me, but I’d be more than happy to-”

“No need,” the stranger notified him. “I don’t want your signature. I just wanted to see you with my own eyes.”

He didn’t consider himself a prideful peacock, not by any stretch, but he was aware of his looks. Men and women both enjoyed looking at him, there was no denying that. But this stranger’s praise made him want to puff out his chest and beam.

_ Careful there, Varric. She hasn’t said anything complementary yet. _

“Well in that case, am I all you were hoping for…?” he wondered until he realized he didn’t catch her name.

She smiled. Her teeth were pearly and straight as a razor, immaculately kept to the point Varric was certain she came from significant wealth. But she couldn’t be; elves weren’t rich. “Myrrine,” she sang. “But you may know me by my other name. Lady Goldentongue.”

Sera gasped loudly, her shock so intense she nearly fell out of her chair. Iron Bull had a reaction somewhat similar, though his own surprise was much milder. As for Varric, the reveal of her name was more amusing than anything else. 

Lady Goldentongue — famous bard with a mysterious way with words. She herself was also shrouded in mystery, whispers of her suggesting she was nothing more than a phantom with a name. The only thing people could definitively say about her was that she was an elf, but even then it was a hotly contested piece of information. One would expect that she wouldn’t perplex the masses as much as she did, seeing as peasants from all over had stories of encountering her in quaint inns and small taverns. All of it, however convincing, was mere speculation. When questioned into a corner, those that said they met her would eventually give up that the unknown bard never gave her name, just slyly smiled and tuned her lute when asked. Blanks were, naturally, filled in.

But Varric wasn’t convinced of the legend. Much less that it was right before him, throwing out her name like it was the easiest thing in the world. 

“That I do,” he confirmed, reaching for his ale. “A legend stands before me and I have no idea how to act.”

The look that passed between them was electric and perceptive, Lady Goldentongue’s, or Myrrine, eyes glowing with barely contained laughter. She was attractive,  _ very  _ attractive, Varric just noticed. ‘Just’ wasn’t entirely correct, but he just now accepted it. Whoever this was, Lady Goldentongue or not, she was certainly enchanting. Varric attributed that to the sheer mystery of who she really was. He didn’t believe that she was the enigmatic figure, true, but she was  _ someone.  _

“Must you act a certain way? I’m not  _ that  _ hard to please,” Lady Goldentongue sang. “I’ve disturbed you for far too long, it would seem. It was lovely meeting you all, nevertheless, I must take my leave.”

“You didn’t even get my name!” Sera shouted frantically.

Myrrine smiled. “Sera, yes?” she asked.

The elf practically melted into her seat, her face turning bright red and bliss settling in. “ _ Yeah… _ ” she sighed.

Before she left, back turned to their table, she glanced over shoulder and eyed Varric once more. “I’d love to discuss your  _ Tale of the Champion,  _ should you feel so inclined sometime. It’s much more...winsome to hear it from the source what all happened,” she purred and off she was.

Sighing into his ale, Varric took a hearty swig.

“That was weird, right? Was that weird?” Iron Bull questioned, his shoulders drawn and his body hunched over the table.

“I’m not sure. I felt like I was intruding on something I wasn’t supposed to ever witness,” Faen said, sorting through the cards in her hand. She paused, pursued her lips as she contemplated what to do, and removed a pesky card. 

“What ever could you mean?” Varric asked. 

Bull snorted. “Besides the obvious and passionate eye fucking between you and  _ Lady Goldentongue,  _ the way you two exchanged words made even me feel a little strange,” he expressed. 

Varric ignored it. “Do you really think she was Lady Goldentongue?” he wondered. 

Shrugging, Bull flexed his right hand several times in preparation for the game they were soon to play. “Hard to say, really. I don’t have a pattern to go off, but her palms were open to us and she wasn’t shifting around. Eye contact was direct,  _ very  _ direct, and her tone didn’t shift,” he explained casually.

“Doesn’t indicate whether her words were truth or not, but if it was a lie, it was quite convincing. Mastery over every possible feature capable of giving her up and poise in which she spoke suggests some sort of extensive training,” Faen added just as casually.

It was as if a conversation in a tongue not of this world was unfolding right before his eyes. Bartrand once did business with two Antivan brothers, had him sit in on the meeting in the event things spiraled out of control. At some incendiary spark unknown to Varric, the Antivan men launched into a fiery tirade so passionate they both slipped into their native tongue. To say Varric was impossibly lost and a touch unable to understand the weight of the offense due to the language barrier was an understatement. That situation was being repeated here, all those feelings of  _ what in the goddamn  _ came flooding back.

_ “What?”  _ Varric huffed.

“There  _ are  _ convincing natural born liars,” Faen claims. “But there’s a different sort of convincing that needs to take place when in the face of people who know what to look for. Myrrine is a bard, at the very least.”

“ _ Orlesian  _ bard,” clarifies Bull. “One of the dangerous kinds.”

Interesting. Although the more he thought on it, the larger the question grew: what did an Orlesian bard want with him? He tried to think of all the people he’d crossed in recent memory, all the bad deals that weren’t solely his fault and all the toes he’d stepped on in his efforts to patch up the holes in Kirkwall. Nothing he could think of seemed so bad as to send a  _ bard _ after him. That was even if this Lady Goldentongue was even sent to spy on or dispatch him. His books were famous, his stories, whether they be preserved in the written word or not, were infinite sources of curiosity. If she was Lady Goldentongue, it was possible she simply wanted to trade ideas, discuss fantastical happenings. Hell, what if she wanted to compose a ballad based on his life?

“I think she was eyeing me,” murmured Sera longingly. 

They all exchanged looks. “Sure,” Bull said, “You think that.”

For the rest of the evening, they played cards. Faen was taught along the way how to played Wicked Grace and while she caught on fast, she didn’t seem all that interested in it and was the first to turn in her cards and excuse herself. One by one, patrons of the tavern trickled out back into the world outside. Varric presumed he should join them, get back into the swing of things. But he didn’t want to leave just yet. He stayed until the only other patron in the tavern was a decrepit looking human, wordlessly glaring at him like he’d done something abhorrently offensive. Didn’t bother him. He took one final swig of his ale, the one he’d been nursing the entire evening, before he got up and left.

“Goodnight,” he called, tipping his head to the human. The man grunted in response.

As Varric made his way back to his humble cabin, the one he shared with three other people, he thought back on the encounter with the bard. He chuckled to himself.

_ I think she really was looking at  _ me _ .  _

The pep in his step was undeniable at that point.

* * *

A’len once made the comment that Faen was disturbingly quiet. Her footfalls were hopelessly light, her breath so soft, and her voice kept mainly to herself. The old woman informed her that there were times she could almost convince herself Faen wasn’t even there. Without the aid of her eyes, she relied mainly on sound but in the case of Faen, it regularly betrayed her. As a child, Faen would often exploit her guardian’s weakness, either to entertain herself or prove the extent of her unusual ability. Sit as still as she could manage while A’len called for her, voice always fluctuating in urgency, and then eventually stumbled about in the attempt to feel for her. Carefully and in time, adeptly, Faen would slink away without a sound, take up a perch far away from the woman, and watch. The first few times she did this, it clearly startled A’len. Those scoldings were especially strong. But as time wore on, A’len learned to not care much anymore. Faen saw now that her actions were a shred cruel. 

When she was old enough, Faen liked to think the Keeper recognized her worth and saw her ability as one to be nurtured. She wasn’t a dimwit, she  _ knew  _ the Keeper’s foremost reasons for selecting her as a “coveted” spy, but it helped to believe that her quiet ways played a part in it. They served her well for all these years, allowed her to blend completely with the shadows and avoid numerous conflicts she had no hope of reigning victory over. She heard all sorts of things throughout the years, ranging from the gruesomely horrific to the astonishingly amazing. In a way, she’d effectively made herself into a ghost. 

Times had changed. Being a ghost would not offer any sort of discernible advantage, not if she wanted her way. It was second nature to want to slip into the shadows and disappear, watch with perceptive eyes that saw everything. She could do it, she told herself, but only at the sacrifice of her autonomy. Retreating into what was most comfortable would leave her uncomfortably exposed, despite how wonderful a coverage darkness was. With all these angles, there wasn’t a single one she could approach and  _ not  _ be the unseen phantom. In truth, there was nothing she could do, ever, that would remove her from the hearts and minds of the faithful. Faen would forever be the Herald of Andraste, no matter how ridiculous it was to believe it. Her likeness would forever be associated with the Inquisition, with the faith, with everything wrong in the world, with everything right in the world. Hiding was fine, but ultimately ineffective. The damage was already done. And hiding granted the vultures an optimal amount of room to swoop down and feed. She wasn’t invisible, not like she once was, but she had no voice. There were people who wanted the words that left her mouth to be theirs. A retreat was passive, submissive, and malleable enough to strike the opportunistic with a bold streak. They would undoubtedly pounce, given the chance. Admitting that felt a little harsh, however. These “vultures” were the counsel — Cullen, Josephine, Leliana — and while her knowledge of them was limited, none of them gave off the impression that they had nothing in their hearts but the best of intentions. They weren’t the vultures she so desperately wanted them to be, unfortunately. They were people with just as much burden placed on them as was on her and scared all the same. Unlike her, they had plans and were notably secure in them. Their ideas were ones they were certain were the best for the health of the world. 

_ I  _ am  _ certain too.  _

Yes, she was. It was impossible to not feel slightly adrift, but she was getting there. Faen wasn’t this clueless imbecile. Anymore. 

Wrestling her voice back from the people who had taken it, however inadvertently, was her goal now. Her three days were up that morning and instead of the expected dread, she was flooded with an assuredness so profound she felt a little light-headed. Later she would more accurately define that confidence as bold-faced audaciousness, but that was of little consequence. Control felt more in reach than it had a few days prior, maybe ever. She was out of bed moments after waking, not even a sliver of time spared to pet Gitta. Faen poked her head out her door, hoping one of the diligent runners that occupied Haven in bulk was nearby. Thankfully, one of the few runners’ whose name she knew was talking to an elven man not thirty paces in front of her cabin.

“Elodie,” she called. “Tell the others to gather in the Chantry. Wake them, if you have to. They have an hour.”

Faen tossed the girl, likely even younger than her, a silver coin. Elodie caught it, a little stunned at her sudden request and the silver. But she nodded.

“Right away, Mistress!” she exclaimed, bidding the elven man farewell, and dashing off.

With that out of the way, she set to readying herself. Her standards were enormously different than that of Leliana or Josephine, but she  _ would _ try. Nothing in her arsenal could even come close to commanding the respect she sought, which she was clueless on herself, though she felt it spoke volumes that she would be as put together as possible. She sat before the cracked mirror in her room, the surface of it speckled with dirt that refused to come off no matter how hard she scrubbed, and wove her hair into a complex braid that utilized her own hair as the tie at the nape of her neck while four thick ropes of braided hair ran from the front of her hairline to where the hair was secured. Gingerly, her fingers worked to produce something rather elegant. There wasn’t much that could be done about the gaunt, pale cheeks or the darkness beneath her eyes, but there was something to do about her lips. Every night, one of the runners (presumably Elodie) would sneak a bowl of berries into her cabin. She hadn’t touched them from last night, exhaustion weighing her down so much she feared she’d collapse. Looking over them now, Elodie had secured her a handful of raspberries — her favorite — and a few strawberries. Memories of a noble woman, her name long forgotten but her beauty sticking with her, whose window she peered through years ago occupied her thoughts. Faen had watched with rapt attention as the woman pulled a small crystalline jar from the assortment of similar vessels assembled on her vanity and proceeded to dip a brush in it and paint a lovely shade of red all over her full lips. Later, she’d inquired the contact she’d been staying with in the city on what it was.

_ “Ah, lip paint!” the woman she’d been staying had told her. “It’s stupidly simple. Crushed berries! The juice stains the lips.” _

So Faen crushed the berries with her fingers until they were a suitable thickness, smeared the color over her lips a little hastily, and licked the remaining juice from her fingertips. The person staring back at her was undeniably her, just with a refreshing twist. Enough of her raw exoticism remained that she was satisfied. 

Dressing herself proved difficult. Nothing she had was particularly assertive or commanding, most of her garments as inoffensive and easy to move in as possible. All her clothes were folded up neatly in the trunk at the foot of her bed, only so orderly due to the superb work of the servants, and tearing through them now, she lamented how she had no idea what “commanding” looked like. The noble ladies of Thedas wore their gowns — the make, fabrics, colors, and adornments differing depending on country — and seemed to her to hold a certain air of dominance. Gowns were, unfortunately, neither accessible nor her taste. Noble women of Thedas were also never in control of power like the kind she was trying to tackle. 

She considered donning her armor. As far as armor went, it was humble, just like she requested, but intimidating enough. Hardened leather a deep shade of brown and reinforced with layered pauldrons reaching about midway down her upper arm. At certain points, primarily through the bust all the way up under the arms and down the spine, leather gave way to tightly woven chainmail mesh. Perfect though it may be, Faen couldn’t move past the words of a grouchy hunter she’d encountered on the eve of her fourteenth year. The man said there was no quicker way to ruin armor than to wear it about like it was some sort of casual house dress. 

Eventually, Faen decided on a marriage of comfortable and practical. Leather breeches, a cloth belt slung around her narrow hips to keep them in place, with a cotton shirt that clung to her tighter than she liked and a fur vest that smelled strongly of pressed, dried flowers. A glance over in the mirror did nothing to ease her concerns that it was appallingly casual, but taking control was on  _ her _ terms, no one else’s. It was while she was lacing up her boots that an idea came to her. The one thing capable of sealing her security. Her eyes flicked up to the wobbly vanity, sparse save for one thing settled on the corner of the surface. The pearl necklace. She had set it down on the vanity once she returned to Haven, only to promptly forget it and it felt terribly wrong. Modest as it was, it was still a fine piece of jewelry with a worth she doubted she would ever truly know. One particular spot of the pearl was duller than the rest of the pearl, likely having been rubbed so often for luck or as a nervous habit. To have discarded it after being ripped so violently from its owner…

Faen held the necklace in the palm of her hand so delicately one would think it were the most precious thing in the world. 

_ What stories have you to tell, hm? _

It would not speak to her and she felt foolish for trying. She sighed. Having briefly forgotten her original purpose, Faen sat there for a moment and pondered the necklace before she remembered that, yes, she had somewhere to be soon and she wanted to wear  _ this _ . Although fastening it around her neck, she felt painfully inadequate. No one would listen, no one would care, she would be bullied into action she didn’t want to take, her attempt to regain control would fall flat and that was almost worse than being robbed of that control in the first place. 

Before her fears spiraled out too far, there was a familiar pressure at her elbow. A trademark low rumble and scratchy tongue lapping away at her shirt. Gitta butted her head up against her arm after she had her fill of licking and Faen chuckled. 

“Don’t you think this is silly?” she asked the cat. “All of this?”

Gitta chirped.

“We should just go, you and I. Leave this mess behind, figure it out on our own,” Faen stated boldly. Gitta protested, or what she assumed was a protest, vehemently. Several loud and unmistakable meows and violent thrashing of her tail indicated as much.

“You’re right, of course,” Faen admitted bitterly. “We wouldn’t succeed. Not in time, anyways. It was just a thought.”

Gitta almost seemed pleased, rewarding her with another headbutt before Faen stood and left.

Based on appearances alone, Haven should’ve been a sleepy little place. Nestled in the valley between two great mountains, surrounded by beautiful scenery, and possessing a slow ambiance that only removed places had. At one point, Haven was certainly a sleepy place where time meant nothing. But that time had long since passed. Early as it was, the sun coyly peeking over the horizon, the village was already in the process of coming alive. It never rested in the first place, people always tending to things at all hours of the day and night, but it did slow considerably after the dinner bell rang for the last call. 

It was finding its footing for the day, tossing and turning to wake itself up fully. Faces young and old, tired and vibrant, passed her as she made her way through the village. Seggrit fretted over his stall, assessing his wares and straightening out items slightly askew. The farmer named Merien was discussing the health of the remaining cattle with a man unfamiliar to Faen. Adan stood with a slab in hand, quill furiously scribbling away at something to either document whatever Minaeve was saying at his side or busying himself to a degree that Minaeve’s words were drowned out. Soon enough, the whole of Haven would be animated and renewed for the day. To watch its chest rise and fall with new, excited breath was novel. Watching the onset of everyday routines was reminiscent of the inner workings of her clan. The likeness was fleeting, ardently chased off before the resemblance could wickedly sink its claws in and rip away chunks of meat from her resolve. 

She made her way to the Chantry, the beginnings of breakfast wafting out from the tent positioned next to the building. It almost appetizing enough to lug her away from her intended goal.  _ Almost.  _ She stalled momentarily, nose picking up on the heavenly scent of bacon and…

No. The Chantry was her goal. Lest she be late, it was prudent to arrive on time. Although, the appeal of arriving last and making a dramatic entrance was crawling higher and higher every passing second between the cramped spaces of her dedication. In the end, her desire for a sensational entrance won out. She approached the tent where the cooking took place and watched.

A portly woman (Faen wondered if she was a dwarf due to her short, proportionate stature) and a lanky elven girl with two skinny braids down her back were in the midst of preparation. The woman stirred a massive cauldron, something thick and viscous sporadically bubbling up and popping swirling about in its depths. The girl was cracking eggs at a table. From the pile of discarded egg shells in the basket at her feet, she’d been at the task for some time. 

“What’s for breakfast today?” Faen called.

The elven girl jumped slightly, quickly peering over her shoulder to see who had disrupted the flow. The woman stirring the cauldron threw a careless glance at her. Her eyes were the color of the sky and held a tricky quality to them. It wasn’t a bad sort of tricky, more like a good-natured glint of mischief. 

“The usual,” the woman responded, knocking her spoon on the rim of the pot to rid it of any residual food. “Nothin’ fa’ncy. Scrambled eggs, bacon, grits. Traditional Ferelden breakfast.”

The girl watched Faen with large, disbelieving eyes. 

“Aven’t seen you ‘round much,” the woman said matter-of-factly.

“No, I suspect you wouldn’t. I haven’t been in the village all that often. My stays here are...abbreviated,” Faen said.

Snorting, the woman dipped her hand into a large jar atop one of the tables in the tent. She grabbed an entire fistful of its contents — salt, she figured — and threw it into the simmering pot. “Lucky you,” she grunted, picking back up her spoon. “Haven’s nice and all, good work we do ‘ere, but it’s a lil maddenin’.”

After incorporating the heaping handful of salt into the grits, the woman stopped stirring, and sunk a small wooden spoon into the mixture, brought it to her lips and tasted her creation. Smacking her lips in succession a few times, she offered the girl a taste, unable to come to a decision on her own. “Whaddya think, Krysla?” she asked. The elven girl repeated the mannerisms of the older woman but came to a conclusion much faster.

“Good. No more,” she said.

The woman nodded. “Right,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and returning her attention to Faen. “Name’s Celga. This here’s me daughter, Krysla. Ave all sorts of hands to help, but we run the cookin’.”

Faen tried to be discreet in her examination, but the rapid flick of her eyes between the two of them was inanely obvious. Her thoughts might as well have been spoken out loud, screamed at the top of her lungs directly into both their ears.  _ You two look nothing alike! _

“She didn’t squeeze me out or anything,” Krysla quickly explained. “She claims most of the motherless here anyhow.”

“True but Krysla’s me favorite, stuck around the longest too,” Celga said, following her words with a deep belly laugh. Krysla looked like she felt slightly out of place, her cheeks reddening and her shoulders bowing in in an attempt to make herself smaller. Faen smiled at them. Endearing as it was to watch a loud mother embarrass her quiet daughter, she’d dallied long enough.

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you both. But the call of duty is a strong one,” she informed them.

“Right along! Get ‘ere nice and early, lass. Breakfast’ll be done in the hour and Hanny likes to give the first few in line a whole heapin’ lot of food,” Celga roared jovially. “Could use some food in your belly. You got nothin’ but skin on those bones of yours!”

Another cascade of genuine, hearty laughter. Another attempt on Krysla’s part to shrivel up into nothing, plus an apologetic look thrown Faen’s way. Faen wasn’t bothered in the slightest by the older woman’s words; there was something to be said about expressing legitimate kindness to a stranger. With another smile, Faen was off to the Chantry, the nerves boiling up again. 

Thankfully, by Mythal’s grace, Mother Giselle and her underlings were absent as she passed through, sparing her the awkward bardment of “Maker go with you” phrased in a million different ways and Mother Giselle’s unending speeches. Originally, Mother Giselle had a fraction of resemblance to A’len that was sentimental enough that Faen was sparsely soft on the woman. Time proved Mother Giselle’s only likeness to A’len were the wrinkles around her mouth and the shape of her eyes. A’len  _ never  _ in all their years together droned on as much as the Mother did. In another context, her lectures might have been interesting to listen to, but Faen noted how similar they were to sermons to a blighted barbarian in the context they currently existed in. 

The only downside to the Mother’s absence was that Faen had no excuse to not make her grand entrance. She stood before the door to the map room, well aware that some sort of fate lay just beyond it. All the previous confidence and assurance had been gaudy talk. Promises could be made when they seemed so far off. Now it was directly in front of her, hidden behind a barrier she alone had the power to overcome. Opening a fucking door could easily be mistaken for asking her to slaughter a whole village of innocent kittens. 

Her eyes flashed to the door to the dungeon, perhaps looking there in the hopes of seeing Solas’ stormy eyes encouraging her to take the dive. But the door was shut, no one filling its doorway. She was alone, which was how she liked it, and she was a touch confused because it seemed so...hard. 

_ Why can’t I throw this door open? Why can’t I take the charge? _

Agony rose up in her chest, her heart beat at an erratic pace. If possible, her blood stilled in her veins.

_ I thought I already had. _

A slight wobble took up in her hands, body thrumming with energy she mistook as the precursor for a sob but was actually the build-up of pure rage. Rage at herself for fooling herself into thinking  _ this _ , everything up until this point, had been her “taking the charge” when it was actually sitting back and-

“Standing there won’t get much done, I’m afraid.”

The tremor stopped, Faen’s eyes flew open (she never remembered closing them), but she did not whirl to see who spoke. At the back of her mind, she heard the swish of thigh against thigh, the scuff of elevated heels on cold stone. She just didn’t register it. Not only that, but the voice was distinct enough that she needn’t panic to figure it out.

Madame Vivienne was the only person she’d encounter thus far who could speak so smoothly, so gently, yet carry a definite mild chiding tone. 

“No, it won’t,” Faen agreed. Her shoulders tensed.

From behind, she could hear Vivienne approach her briskly. A hand gripped her shoulder with enough tame pressure to urge Faen to face her and face her she did. Like Solas, she’d seldom seen Vivienne in the past few days. Both women were busy, the many duties of Haven eating away at the time faster than Faen liked to admit, and if she understood correctly, the Enchantress hardly left the Chantry. But she was faced with the woman’s angular face once more, her head seeming smaller and face almost incomplete. Faen pondered the strange look to her face now until it was evident — she was without her henin. 

Vivienne assessed her quietly while Faen stared, ostensibly unaware to her keen eyes examining her intently, but Faen thought she was more immune and than she was unaware. Hands were at the cuffs of her shirt, rolling them over unto themselves to fit neatly around Faen’s wrists. 

“I’m not meeting with royalty,” Faen mentioned.

“I am well aware,” Vivienne said, taking her time to perfect the crease in her left sleeve. “You might not think it, but appearances are half the battle. Wars are waged, fought, and lost over fashion. Every day, standings in the courts would plummet or rise high based on the color of fabric, the height of a heel, a hair out of place.”

Faen frowned as Vivienne smoothed a hand over her crown. “This isn’t court,” she said, “The likelihood of them booting me from the room for longer sleeves is minimal.”

Sneaky delight crept up on Vivienne’s face. She smiled prettily in her practiced way and finished up with her fretting over the sleeves. “Mayhaps not. They wouldn’t  _ dare _ dismiss the woman responsible for all our salvation, after all. But getting the boot is the least of your problems,” Vivienne observed. “The youngest person in there is your senior by about ten years. Give or take. The least accomplished person in there was Knight-Captain of the Kirkwall Templars under a notoriously onerous to please Knight-Commander for  _ years  _ and is currently in charge of this little order’s entire armed forces.”

Did she purposely seek out the profoundly painful buttons to push? Was it some sort of game to watch her resolve crumble before her? To stoke a passionate fear in her heart and watch it unfold before her cutting eyes? Faen glared at the Enchantress, resentment boiling. Only through the chewing of her cheek was she able to keep her mouth shut long enough for Vivienne to continue. 

“You are more than welcome to parade about in there like a frumpy, unkempt child. But know that is all they will ever see you as should you proceed. They are not convinced you are capable of what they ask and vy for the power to bend you to their individual wills,” Vivienne continued, “It is all the more easier to convince themselves they can succeed if you feed into their lowest opinions of you.”

Numbness slowly stepped into her body. Instead of a slow pour through her limbs and trunk, it was as if all feeling had been instantly vitiated within the span of a single heartbeat. The change was drastic and savage, but fleeting. As quickly as it had overcome her, it had left and feeling returned. Clarity also came flooding back in. Vivienne’s words rang in her ears like shrill screams from every angle. Useless words had been stripped away to leave Faen with an ultimate truth.

_ They want to use you. They want to use you. _

She was angry, so  _ vividly  _ angry she couldn’t stand it. Inside, the anger was so painfully present and in every part of her that she felt like gasping for air. It choked her almost. Somewhere, a harsh shush sounded, effectively quieting the roar of her anger. In this new silence, a small voice spoke up, trembling with the effort to expel the words. 

_ Is anyone angry for me? Does anyone care?  _ It begged.

Anger flared again, lashing out defiantly against the pathetic wobble of the voice.  _ No!  _ It screamed.  _ No one cares! We are alone! As we always are! _

Faen inhaled slowly through her nose. “Do they have no shame? Do they feel guilt?” she murmured. 

“Should they?” Vivienne asked curiously. “They certainly don’t think they should. I don’t pretend to know the inner-workings of their minds, but I  _ can _ say that manipulation seems...inconsequential when so much is at stake. If it meant saving the world, restoring order, would you let guilt hinder your actions? I wouldn’t. It can only help that they see you as needing to be guided.”

Faen childishly turned her back to Vivienne, almost expecting her words to mean nothing if she did so. Truthfully, it wasn’t Vivienne she should be upset with, yet she was. A nagging thought tugged at the hem of her shirt, whispering quietly that the narrative the Enchantress spun could very well be a concoction all of her own. Another attempt to manipulate her. Or she could be right. A mix of both seemed likely. “I’m perfectly capable of steering myself,” she spat.

“Wonderful as that is, I’m afraid I’m not the one in need of convincing, my dear,” Vivienne said. “You won’t do much convincing out here.”

That set her off. Throwing one final glare over her shoulder, blood collecting in her cheeks as she saw the blasted pleasure in Vivienne’s eyes, Faen stormed into the map room. The door is thrown open so violently it hits the wall and bounces back slightly. Everyone inside gaped at her with wide, shocked eyes. 

“Send word to the mages. In the following few days, I’ll set out for Redcliffe, with or without the support of anyone in here.” Faen boomed with a determination so powerful it shocked even her.

When Cullen started up his usual counters to any discussion of the mages, insisting the Templars were better suited for negating the power of the breach by spades, Faen swiftly and sternly shut him down. “Fuck the Templars, Commander,” she barked. “By all means, march on Therinfal Redoubt and request the aid of the Templars. Know that I, the Herald of Andraste, won’t be at the head of the charge. The mages will be here to greet them.”

She wasn’t sure if the sound was in her head or softly pouring out from a darkened corner of the room, but she could swear she heard the unusual and distinct wheeze of A’len’s laughter. Faint, surely, but undeniable. Reality or figment of her imagination, neither was important — she cared only that she heard it and because of it, if there was ever any doubt, it had been done away with. She  _ was  _ on the right path. No one alive was capable of persuading her from it.

-+-

Expectations were low in terms of how her newfound authority would be received. Faen expected a pushback she couldn’t hope to withstand, the force behind it knocking her flat on her ass, never to get up again. But things played out far differently than anticipated. Besides the initial efforts of Cullen, a weary look from Cassandra and a profound sigh, everyone present in the room was exceptionally amiable to the course of action she proposed. No, she didn’t propose anything. What she demonstrated was a declaration, a generous indication of her intended path. There was no room for anyone to agree or disagree, which was an unintended effect but one she was pleased with all the same. 

Leliana had beamed with satisfaction at her declaring her support for the mages. Allying with the mages was her openly advocated for opinion all along. Faen supposed in some ways, Leliana viewed this as a victory for all the wrong reasons. To guess at her motives and thoughts was useless and ludicrous, but it wasn’t as absurd a speculation that Leliana wanted to manipulate what she perceived to be a clueless girl as Faen once thought. Just because they shared an end goal, it didn’t make the Sister any less of a threat to her power than Cullen. Josephine mirrored Leliana’s satisfaction, though Faen was sure it was more borne of relief at a decision finally being made and not any real approval of the side. 

With soft mumbles of acceptance, they moved into the finer details. A suitable message was drafted, bartering chips were discussed. Josephine graciously reminded everyone that an approach and offering of an olive branch  _ were  _ appropriate steps to take but were not immediately indicative of a victorious alliance. Meetings were well and good, yet not always as productive as everyone hoped. Her reminder wrangled in an ambitious Cullen, who rested a large hand on the pommel of his sword in an act of defeat and pressed his lips into a thin line. Until the meeting was suspended, he ran his thumb over the rounded piece with a careful steadiness that Faen postulated he was soothing himself. Soothing didn’t have the right feel; the action seemed more to her like his attempt at biting his tongue. It worked, right up until the very end when Cassandra asked those gathered if there were any questions or comments to add. Cullen expressed his concerns, but climatically maintained his loyalty to the will of the Herald. The others agreed.

Professed loyalty to her will was nice. It rang a little hollow when it became evident that her input and suggestions still didn’t matter. Anything she said was either shot from the sky the second it was within sight or edited severely to a point the outcome bore hardly any resemblance to the original idea. That was if she could even cram a word in in the first place. Force died down as the conversation waged on. The absolute confidence she’d stormed in with wasn’t used to such strenuous use, quickly growing too tired to bother with at least trying to rear its head. 

After that, they all dispersed. Faen wanted to bolt the second things concluded. The urge to flee was a combination of factors: she felt embarrassed by coming in so hot and fizzling out so cold, she found her anger at being silenced (yet again) difficult to control, she wanted to spare herself the further embarrassment of  _ finding  _ her voice once more only to use it to make an idiot of herself. Vivienne’s words flashed in her head with every pulse of her heart.  _ They think you’re a child  _ over and over again until it was the only thing on her mind. Exploding on them would be momentarily gratifying, certainly, but did she really want to reinforce a view of herself she was fighting so hard to defy? She was so caught up in this conflict that she hadn’t moved an inch. Blinking, she saw the room had lost a few occupants and only Leliana and her remained. Leliana, she saw, was approaching her.

“I am glad you decided to approach the mages,” she applauded. As much as she wanted it to be false, the Sister’s voice rang true. There was no condescension, no subtle mockery, or holier than thou lilt. Faen only wanted to be mad at  _ someone… _

“You make it seem like there was ever any doubt,” Faen began, unable to hold back her tongue. “If you had bothered to listen to me, instead of all speaking over me like I was a squeak to be muffled, you would have known the mages were always my choice.” 

Leliana didn’t take the offense she thought she would. There was the unable tightening of her jaw, a telltale clench of her fists, but no outright hostility. Surprisingly, the other woman frowned rather solemnly, head dipping slightly in shame. “Yes…” she whispered wistfully. “I suppose...none of us wanted to listen.”

Faen snorted. “Rather concise,” she commented.

“What more is there to say?” Leliana wondered. “If someone so young, so distant from our affairs could say something more meaningful than any of  _ us,  _ people with years on you, who have devoted themselves tirelessly in some way to a facet of the Chantry...it would make it real how far we’ve fallen.”

It made sense and she didn’t want it to. It was not an excuse, this admission wasn’t anywhere near enough to remove the weight of other people thinking they knew better than you, but it was a palatable explanation. Worst of all, she was beginning to understand it. Denial was a potent thing, more daunting to confront than anyone cared to admit. And it drew her attention to how...selfish was being. She hadn’t once pondered the impact this mess had on those around her. It was easier to look at the people of Haven and see them as mindless workers, responding to the sharp crack of the whip held by whomever had caused all this. To be faced with the reality that these were all people saddled with the same fear that burrowed into her soul…

“But this wasn’t my intention. I hate to brush aside your anger, but I had something I wanted to bring to your attention, Faen. We can discuss things at a later time. This, I fear, cannot wait.” Leliana said gravely. 

The sincerity of her tone shook her from her mood instantly. She stiffened and hunkered down at Leliana’s side. “Speak,” she commanded.

The Sister’s tongue darted across her bottom lip so swiftly Faen almost missed her. Her cool eyes, the color of darkened water and just as deep, were drawn to something behind Faen. She could feel the eerie presence of someone approach her from behind, her body tensing in preparation for some sort of attack. One never came. 

The mysterious presence moved past her, handed something over to Leliana with nothing but a nod. This person was clad all in black and besides a cumbersome presence, was virtually undetectable due to how silently they moved. 

Leliana unrolled the scroll presented to her, eyes scanning its contents quickly before nodding in approval, though her expression darkened. “Thank you, Rowena. It is as I suspected then,” she said. 

Rowena nodded as well. “Yes, unfortunately. It’s always strange when you’re right,” she said and Faen froze.

That voice...unmistakable. Versatile in a way that one questioned whether it was masculine or feminine. Like the silky pour of honey on skin, only to find it’s disgustingly sticky when trying to remove it. Carrying a burden only she could know. The voice from Val Royeaux, the one who first spoke of the machine against her. 

“ _ You,” _ Faen choked out.

Turning, the enigma revealed to her its face. What greeted her was startling in every possible way. A face like an oxymoron hewn into flesh greeted her. The shape of her force was blunted and round, stretched lengthwise more so than Faen thought was normal. Her jawline was narrow, curved so tightly it was a mystery how the bone just beneath the tawny skin didn’t snap. Cheeks sat high on her face, muted significantly by a hearty layer of fat packed atop the usual shelf of cheekbones, but it didn’t give her the appearance of being too heavy — her face wasn’t fat by any stretch. The soft plumpness of her face indicated she, at one point or another, hadn’t lived a life where wanted for too terribly much. Girls in the meager homes of large cities rarely looked so healthy, even should their fortunes change. What was shocking was the violent shift from softness to the razor sharpness of the rest of her features. Aquiline nose — snapped clean at one point, only to never have been set properly. Almond shaped eyes a stark shade of blue so pale they almost looked bleached. Her eyes were set deep in her face, the ridge of her brow drooping over them quite heavily. Her striking features culminated in the extreme definition of her stout lips and the gnarly scars starting at the corners of that mouth, fanning out to just below her cheeks. 

All in all, a profoundly gnarly woman stood before her. There were vibrations of beauty in her face, but they were barely present, slowly fading into nothingness. Faen silently sucked in a deep breath.

“Me,” Rowena confirmed. “It is good to see you free, little bird. And you yet live.”

In a sense, Faen was slightly overwhelmed. The identity of the mysterious, yet helpful voice who whispered to her in her cell was  _ not  _ a figment of her imagination, as she feared it was. Paired with how...different looking the woman was, her thoughts were leaping from the fascinated to the skeptical.

“You were there, in Val Royeaux.” she stated.

Perfectly kept brows raised. Rowena pushed a strand of raven hair behind her ear. “I was,” the woman confirmed. “It’s not as dubious as you think. I am where I’m needed.”

Leliana’s eyes flicked between the two, knowing spreading through her face. “Ah, I was not aware you two had met, though I had considered introducing you both. You’ll find your work overlaps,” she said. “Rowena, this is Faen, the Herald of Andraste. Faen, this is Rowena. She is my top agent. Her investigative efforts spared your life. On numerous occasions.”

“I knew about you long before you could ever imagine me,” Rowena clarifies bluntly. “Your name was needed and I found it, at the start. I collected your evidence of corruption. Built upon what was given to me.”

Not knowing what to say or how to process the current situation, Faen stared stupidly at the two women. Oddly enough, she felt violated in a way. It made a scant bit of sense, but she couldn’t ignore the uneasiness Rowena instilled in her. It wasn’t a looming, domineering uneasiness that was overtly obvious or particularly potent. The uneasiness generated from Rowena was a shy thing, cowering behind anything bigger than itself to conceal itself when Faen looked its way. But the second she turned her back on it, she could feel its eyes  _ studying  _ her like she was a specimen. And that was the general air of Rowena — someone who perpetually sought to know the most intimate of details about everything. 

The feeling that Rowena knew every explicit element of her life was unshakable and not as shy as her uneasiness. Faen would almost laugh at the irony — she herself having built a life around obtaining the very same thorough details — if she wasn’t so ragingly uncomfortable. She could feel a squirm crawling up her spine. She suppressed it. 

“Why are you here?” Faen demanded when she found her voice again.

“Not the question I was expecting, but one with an answer I can give,” Rowena said in her colorless way. “Delivering a report. I was tasked with collecting specific intel from a contact.”

Leliana tapped the scroll of paper. “And how was our  _ friend?  _ Put up much of a fight this time?” she asked.

“Enough to say he did. I know better.”

With a wave of her hand and a scoff, Leliana turned her back from them. From the dip of her head, Faen suspected she was re-examining the scroll in her hands. Finally, she said, “You may go, Rowena. Thank you.”

Bowing, Rowena gave Faen one last glance before she departed as silently as she had entered. Her absence, in truth, the whole blasted exchange, left Faen confused. Looking to Leliana for answers was an earnest attempt at trying to understand, although a wholly useless thing. Leliana’s face was a perfect mask of impassivity, as it always was. Years of training herself to reveal as little as possible was a source of envy for Faen. 

“Care to explain?” she hesitantly inquired.

Inhaling slowly, Leliana rested her hands on the surface of the table. “If you require an explanation on Rowena, I cannot give you much. Her secrets are her own,” she stated. 

“As if that’s my most pressing concern,” Faen spat. “You’re the Nightingale, the Left Hand of the Divine, there’s a certain expectation that comes along with such titles and association with strange characters is one of them.”

Faen fondled a large hole in the table. The edges of it were rough, the hollowed out inside lacquered thickly. “That said, I would greatly appreciate being somewhat in the fucking know,” she scolded. “Of all the people, I think I’m the one who should be the first to know, not the absolute last.”

At her cutting words and tone (both of which were surprising even for her to hear, let alone know they came from her), the Sister froze. She had been trying to wear away at the stone beneath her feet with the tip of her boot but instantly halted when Faen finished speaking. She peered over her shoulder, orange waves cascading over her shoulder. “Would knowing these things — how we sifted through what little was known of your life, the implausibly dire circumstances in Val Royeaux — would they have helped to know?” she challenged defiantly. Her fight was brief, however. All too quickly, she sighed, pinched the bridge of her slender nose, and closed her eyes. Resignation was the word that came to mind; it didn’t fit as well the more Faen looked on at her. 

“You are right,” Leliana admitted. “Cullen, Josie, and I have no one to check us as well as we should. It’s easy to think the entire world rests upon your shoulders when it is you who is often weaponized to fix it. I plan to remedy that right now, however.”

The Sister turned to her completely. “There is a matter I cannot bring up to the others. One that requires your intervention specifically.” she uttered. 

Severity cowered over her like a broken monolith, wringing its hands. It immediately perked Faen up, allowing for her previous disdain and anger to dissipate momentarily while her focus honed in on what Leliana had to say. She moved closer to the Sister, maintaining a suitable enough distance yet still one to spur her on. 

“By now, the whole of Thedas knows of my  _ close _ involvement with the Wardens,” Leliana explained. “I traveled with the Hero of Ferelden, as well as a few other members of her order. I have a handful of solid ways to get in contact with the Wardens because of it. But that’s the thing — I can’t.”

Faen didn’t follow. Frowning, she rubbed her jawline that suddenly itched. Deep down, she could feel the implication of her words, the troubled message it portended. “What do you mean?” she demanded.

“All word out of Weisshaupt and the other Grey Warden fortresses have ceased. Reported sightings of Grey Warden complements roaming the countryside have stopped as well. I haven’t been able to get word to  _ any _ of my contacts in the Wardens, let alone hear from them.” Leliana said. “The Grey Wardens have always been reclusive, but never to the extent they’re entirely absent. It is strange how their disappearance coincides so perfectly with the events at the Conclave…”

“You don’t think they’re involved, do you? You know the Hero of Ferelden and her companions. Is this something they would do?” Faen squeaked. She was still a welp when the Fifth Blight tore through Ferelden and her clan was far from the nation at the time. Stories, however, of the valiant Hero of Ferelden, Ana Cousland, and her sisterly bond with two of her fellow Wardens (as well as her romantic involvement with the Warden Alistair) were intriguing ones that knew no borders. Word spread to every country, her clan latching on to the tales of a particular Warden in the Hero’s complement, Sebille Mahariel. Dalish like them and while not the one behind the killing blow, a hero all the same and in her own right. 

Along with the fabled exploits of the Hero, stories of the relationship between Sister Leliana and Synathra Amell, one of the Wardens, also spread like wildfire. Faen never heard it uttered behind fans as gossip — most people treated the detail as another element of the legend — but there were bound to be those that ran with the story. If anyone had any sort of insight on the Wardens and their possible involvement, it would be Leliana. Or so Faen thought.

“I can assure you, with the utmost confidence, that the Wardens  _ I  _ know have no involvement in...whatever is currently happening with the order,” Leliana insisted. “Synathra and the others are quite far removed from Thedas at present.”

There was no further elaboration on what she meant.

“I cannot definitively say anything; you know as well as I do that it is wise to hold the tongue when in the face of too many possibilities. Things are foggy. Too foggy to draw conclusions,” Leliana cautioned. She frowned. “But the timing of their disappearance is...I doubt the two are unrelated. Too many people have grown adept at not being able to or ignoring the writing on the wall. I’ve never been one of those people.”

“When did you first get a whiff that something was amiss with the Wardens?” Faen inquired.

“The shift from relative noise to absolute silence was a gradual one. Reports and communication has slowly pittered out over the past few months, but the most noticeable dip came in the handful of weeks before the Conclave. Complete silence in the week before.”

Yes, Faen could agree that the disappearance of the Wardens was an odd one that likely spelled out a nefarious connection. Yet, in spite of it lining up so wonderfully, she couldn’t understand  _ why.  _ The why was a huge mystery and far too crucial a part to exclude. What would the Wardens have to gain from the explosion at the Conclave? At the hole in the sky? Wardens were too remote and neutral to make the profound political statement of the Conclave. There was very little they could stand to gain or lose from anything involving the Conclave. All this was in the event that the Wardens were  _ behind  _ the attack, not victims of it. 

“The latest bit of intel I’ve received, the scroll provided by Rowena confirms it, details the first reported sighting of a Warden in  _ months.  _ Conveniently, he’s been spotted in the Hinterlands, near the Crossroads.” the Sister revealed. “A lone Warden but a Warden nonetheless. Warden Blackwall. It’s not clear why he’s alone or why he’s even out roaming about, but that’s where you come in.”

“You want me to find him, get some answers out of him,” Faen finished. 

Nodding, Sister Leliana handed her the scroll. “Correct. I heard you were good at that,” she said, hinting at her not so distant past.

Bizarre. Faen’s expertise laid in her keen observation of the smallest details. She had the eye and the patience to spot them. On the other hand, she rarely interacted with the subjects of her surveillance. It had been known to happen on occasion, their paths would physically cross and Faen would be spurred to ask questions. But never in a hostile setting, blatantly obvious what her intent was. Confrontation was always  _ just  _ so that she had room to retreat readily if things changed suddenly. 

“I’m not the brute force you think I am,” Faen told her. “I cannot corner him.”

“Do you need to? I think a friendly line of questioning should do the job,” Leliana countered slyly. 

There was a glaring fault in her plan to have Faen be friendly with the man. “If your suspicions are right, how do you think I’ll be able to remain cordial with the man if he’s involved in the events at the Conclave? The Inquisition has made their stance on the whole thing very clear.” Faen said.

Leliana smirked. “You’re a smart girl,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

* * *

They did not wait for a response from the mages of Redcliffe. Debates were waged on how prudent the move was, most suggesting it wasn’t, but those voices were always countered by how little time they had. Besides, it wasn’t as if the Inquisition was waiting on their word to accept the offer — Grand Enchanter Fiona had already made it very clear that the mages were at least skeptically interested in the Inquisition. Ravens were sent as a warning of their arrival.

In the days leading up to their departure, Faen had been busier than she ever had with the Inquisition. Rather suddenly, she was stepped heavily in the deeper workings of the order and she couldn’t be more pleased. Granted, it still all felt a pinch too surface level, but it was definite progress from her previous position. Ironically, there were times she had to break apart from the nonstop running around or else she would be quickly overwhelmed by it all. A moment to breathe, a moment to herself where she could order her thoughts…

On the day before they were set to make for the Hinterlands, she was walking about Haven after it had slowed down considerably. Mindless wandering at first, but soon she had a purpose. She had initially thought to seek out Celga and her girl in the hopes of maybe asking for a sweet treat. Then she caught sight of someone she hadn’t properly spoken to in what felt like ages — Solas. He sat cross-legged at a small fire, an opened book balanced on one knee, and a sheet of parchment on the other. His attention was divided between the two, his eyes poring over the book for a time, only for him to switch over to the parchment and scratch out notes on what he just read. It was enthralling to see how crisp his focus could become...the slight draw together of his brows as what he read puzzled him slightly, the infrequent purse of his lips, followed by a delicate frown. His fingers would skim the lines of text, their shape so distinct that Faen was quite taken with it. Long like reeds. As flexible and nimble as one too. The tapered end of the distal phalanx…

Approaching him felt like forcefully kicking him from a task he enjoyed. Simply walking towards him wasn’t anywhere near as violent or unreasonable as kicking him, though the outcome was the same. As she neared, he became aware of her and as such, looked up. At first, she didn’t think he’d recognized her. His face was still drawn in his focus. It slowly slipped away into something resembling mild pleasant acknowledgment. 

“Hello, Faeneth.” Solas greeted. 

She sat across from him and smiled. “Is this what you’ve been doing for the past week or so?” she asked. “Absorbed in your books? I haven’t seen you since the dungeon.”

He set aside his parchment, marked his page in the book and closed it before setting it aside as well. There was a touch of remorse on his face. “I apologize for that. There were a number of things that came up and required my attention a little bit more urgently than I anticipated,” he explained evenly. He didn’t elaborate further and she felt no desire to push. “I have been meaning to seek you out, to check on you after our last encounter, but I see you have been as equally preoccupied.”

His smile was small, yet more than enough for her to see it as genuine. Perhaps it was just a trick of the eye, her mind convincing her of something she  _ wanted  _ to see, but she could have sworn there was a small beam of pride in his eyes. 

“Yes,” she confirmed confidently. “Your words...opened my eyes.”

“I don’t believe they were ever shut,” he defied. “You were just looking the wrong way. I pointed out where they needed to be.”

She looked away from his intense eyes, struck by a rapid bloom of bashfulness. Her focus was drawn to the tracing of uncharged runes into the dirt with her finger. “I’m glad you did,” she admitted gently.

He chuckled. “There are few who don’t enjoy the benefits of my advice,” he teased.

“Cocky,” Faen spoke. “What an unexpected tone from you.”

“I only jest.” he said.

Silence and it was comfortable.

“Strange is it for someone to react so well and so quickly to unfamiliar direction,” Solas eventually said as if in a daze. Faen looked up from her collection of traced runes to see he was peering into the fire. “You were so sure in what I said…”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

It wasn’t a question she expected. Wasn’t one she had all that much of an answer for. She thought on it for a bit, conclusively excluding that she was so receptive to his advice because it came from him. Partially true, it wasn’t enough of the reason for her to admit it. Instead… 

“It sounded like something I’ve already told myself,” she realized. “It was something I said in a way I didn’t understand it, I think. Or maybe I didn’t want to understand it.”

Solas canted his head to the side a bit, further examining the fire as if something enchanting was in its depths. “I am glad you listened,” he said. “A suggestion, though: listen to yourself from now on. You are not as clueless as you think.”

Maybe he was right. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a side note...can some please explain to me how the fuck to spell Ferelden/Fereldan? I've seen both ways and there's apparently no canon way because in numerous codex entries, BioWare spells it either way and there's no order to it.


	10. Update 3/22/20

Sadly, if you're invested in this work, this is not the chapter you're looking for. It's been a while and a bit since my last update to this story, a couple days over a month ago to be exact, and wow. I won't bore you with the intricate details of my personal life so I'll give you the two important things that have held me up. First, my computer broke and it's been a mighty bitch to fix. Second, I was in the worst place I've ever been in in my entire life for nearly a month. Things still aren't perfect but I've regained enough of myself to at least function without someone needing to monitor me 24/7. Needless to say, I haven't been working on the next chapter for this work at all. That isn't to say I've lost interest. I technically haven't, but this work and Dragon Age as a whole aren't at the forefront of my creative thoughts currently. I finished my Inquisition playthrough I believe sometime in November or December? So I haven't been immersed in Faen and Solas and the others for a time. And I finished the entire Dragon Age series in February. I've moved on to other things.

That said, I do have every intention of continuing to work on this story, albeit at my own pace completely. As it stands, I'm not really in a place to sit down and devote the amount of time and energy I did previously to my writing. But I would like to get back into it. 

I guess now of all times would be the perfect time to jump back into the thick of writing. There's just a lot going on in my life at this time that prevents me from putting in the effort and time that this project requires. Sure, I could totally half ass it and just pump out shit to pump out shit but that's not me. I hope everyone is staying safe in these scary times and I wish everyone well. 


	11. Second Update

Long time no see. My last update felt like a lifetime ago. In a sense, it was. Since then, things have changed significantly and I feel like a different person entirely. Absolute rock bottom does that, I guess. As such, I have a bit of an announcement to make regarding the future of this shit. A couple of weeks ago, I went back through what I currently have for this and decided that I actually hated it. Not hated it, that's a strong word, but I saw that it wasn't what I wanted to do with this idea. At the time, it certainly scratched my itch, I was and still am proud of it. However, with the whole rock bottom + rising out of rock bottom a different person thing, what I had and the direction I was going in isn't what I wanted for this fic anymore. I started writing this when I was 19, Faen was written as 18 because that's what I felt comfortable writing, I was basically as young as she was. Now I'm 20 and while I guess it isn't that big a difference, in looking over it, to me it is. Now that I don't feel as much like a lost child as I did when I started this, a new perspective's been gained, and honestly? Faen being freshly 18 _feels _creepy. In a lot of ways, Faen being so young and engaging in a relationship with a much older man was very much so a way in which I dealt with my own personal circumstances. Writing has always been a way to work through or deal with things, but I've dealt with said issues. Dealing with them, plus not being 18 anymore and the pace at which I write meaning that I'll just keep getting older and older as I write an 18-year-old...not a comfy thing. I also didn't like Faen as a character anymore. She needed a whole overhaul. There's a metric ton of other factors involved in this, but basically all this is to say that I'm slowly rewriting what I have.

Which leads me to the next "update": as it stands right now, I don't have any plans on uploading the rewrite. Discovering that I could be the only person to enjoy something I created felt amazing. I never set out on this writing thing to gain fame or praise or whatever, but there's an added level of pressure and slow build of adrenaline when I posted updates publically. I rarely ever looked over anything I had, meaning no edits and no time for ideas to simmer. On top of that, stepping away for a bit made me realize how much I disliked the fandom. I'm not talking about the people who were engaged with this fic, I loved how sweet and supportive everyone here was, but the greater fandom as a whole leaves an ultra gross taste in my mouth. It's no secret that the Dragon Age fandom is unbelievably toxic. I know people well outside of the fandom who only know of the fandom because of its radioactive reputation. That toxicity has killed any sort of desire I had to actively contribute to this community in any way. Of course, I'm hella conflicted due to how wonderful people have been about this fic. As I've been rewriting it, I know how I've felt when a story I was heavily invested in (not saying anyone is) gets abandoned. But on the flip side, I understand why people leave things behind. I enjoy the hell out of Dragon Age, it's one of my favorite games ever, but largely on my own, not in a greater community. I've been trying to think of a way to share anything I have with whatever individuals want to see it, with no success.

Besides that, in going back over my notes and considering more current ideas, this fic has almost always been far bigger than I could've imagined. To a point where it doesn't even feel like fanfiction anymore? Clearly it is, majority of the characters and factions and powers in place aren't mine, neither is the world, but the directions I plan on going in feel like enough of a severe reroute that I genuinely have no idea what to do with this. Enough independent additions and examination that I don't think many people would want to follow it as Dragon Age fanfiction.

I don't really know how to end this besides saying update concluded.


End file.
